The Funny Thing About Happenstance
by LaylaPendragon
Summary: An unsuspecting American academic makes the unhappy acquaintance of the men at Baker St, shenanigans follow. Sherlock/OC John/OC; Spoilers for Season 2. M for adult themes and language. Prequel to On and On the Rabbit Hole Twists.
1. The Move

**Disclaimer: I own only Layla, Henry and Alex.**

Sunday

Well, it happened. The grant finally came through and the administrative staff kindly removed their heads from their sphincters long enough to forward the paperwork along. I'll be leaving within the week. Good Lord, what a load of packing I have ahead of me. And shipping. All of my belongings. Correction: all of the shit I've acquired and refused to toss out over the years which now has to be transported overseas to a nation smaller than the county I grew up in. Well, not actually, but that is an incredibly tiny island to have such a sizeable population. I bet I can't even physically keep all of my possession in my new 'flat.' Fuck.

Monday

My roommate reminded me that a journal is useless without any context. I told her to fuck off, but really she has a point. If I come back to this with some newly acquired amnesia-inflicting ailment I wouldn't have a friggin clue what was going on. So here it goes.

A month ago, while working with Henry over Skype (he's in Germany for some God awful reason, something about bratwursts or scholarship) on the new Linear A slab found in a recent excavation blah blah blah I can look that shit up. Anyways, we had made some headway on the new list on this particular artifact. It happened to include some notes sketched by a scribe which were then accidently preserved for posterity by a fire since the lists were made on delible clay tablets. The notes corresponded with a separate iconographical tradition from a different Near Eastern language yadda yadda. More relevantly, my university had wheedled its way into possessing this piece and while it was incredibly enlightening and special and shit, what I, as the lead researcher on this project, needed was comparative evidence. Comparative evidence was only to be found on other Linear A tablets. Linear A tablets were really only to be found in the British Museum, at least for the time being. So, there it is: the new tablet and I needed to make our happy way over to London. Of course, the university would not turn over such a lucrative artifact, even though my research was what was going to make it so valuable, ass clowns.

The committee therefore decided that I should just take a set of ridiculously expensive photographs of the tablet with me as some sort of replacement to act as reference as I tried to use the new info to decode the other tablets. These special photographs have yet to be handed over to me because they take a goddamn long time to develop, something about being perfect. Bullshit if you ask me, watch they'll be grainy as fuck.

Tuesday

Well, the photos are ridiculously clear. Also, they're worth like a thousand dollars. Superb, something else for me to liable for. The cool part is they're huge and "HD" so I can see every dip and dent in the clay, which is handy for determining things like scribe ability and preferred hand and sometimes even his original language (some characters start dragging into native glyphs). So, bravo lard asses, the photographs are fantastic. In fact, they are so fantastic, they'll be travelling with me in a locked 'bullet-proof' case. Although why the photos would be subject to gunfire is lost on me. This is all for the next few days of travel and moving in. I doubt I'll be up to writing inane journal entries on very little sleep and a daily dose of too much stress. Later.

Friday

Brief update: flat is in a basement. Yes, I did write basement. It is tiny and my neighbors are an uncontested nightmare. The management is, however, very kind. Henry is in town. He smells like beer and has put on ten pounds, easily. He's bunking in a live-in across town at twice my price, so I guess I could have had it worse. He is, of course, closer to the Museum but my commute is manageable. Especially considering the beautiful facilities there, I could live on site and be perfectly content. I've actually already made use of their reading room with almost no incident. And by almost no incident, I mean there was a fucking great hoopla within said reading room raised by me and _almost_ every one tolerated me just fine. Perhaps it was because the room was sound proof, or because they were too posh to even care. I somehow think it was the latter. I have a lunch meeting to attend to for the time being, I will describe in more detail upon my return. Warning it contains a great deal of cursing and a bloody great dickhead.

So much to tell and the overly eventful lunch didn't help. The event in the museum library can be summed up thusly: "Holy shit, motherfucking cocksucker! Where in the goddamn fucking world can those shitting photo's that are fucking worth more than my fucking existence be? Asshole, dick, cunt twat cocking fuck- can I help you?" Enter the tall, rather morose… gentleman I guess is the only appropriate word I can find… who proceeds to basically eye fuck the entire room while audibly judging me in his brain, that's right he's so put off by my horridly obscene fuckfit that I can hear him thinking his judgmental thoughts. Not to mention that his entire ensemble oozed high society. His gorgeous overcoat probably cost more than the rent for my apartment. Yes, his coat was gorgeous. No, it does not make up for his behavior, not really. And no, I don't know why he was wearing a fucking huge coat indoors. Continuing, after he fully assessed how disgusting he found the clusterfuck that was my study area and my apparent lack of hygiene (I had just been on a plane for an unspeakable amount of time and hadn't been able to get into my flat because the land lady was out) he stooped so low as to ask me whatever could be so disturbing that it required every variation on American profanity to properly curse. I couldn't, at that point, give any less of a fuck about this snide ass or his opinion of me, but because I was in a foreign country and friendless, I wasn't particularly keen on spending my first night in some public cell for disturbing the peace or some other bogus charge. So, I put on my most sickly sweet and apologetic smile and calmly explained that a rather valuable set of research photos had gone missing, despite it being unknown of and basically impossible to have been stolen. Mr. Sexy Coat merely sniffed and told me oh-so-matter-of-factly that the hyper-digitalized photos of the Mycenae tablets had been stolen a 10 am this morning at Heathrow airport while I was frequenting the ladies. Completely struck dumb, I gracelessly gaped at him while he took the opportunity to break his emotionless façade with a sickeningly smug smirk and continued: "you will also soon find that your handbag is also not your own, it seems you've been personally targeted for this particular theft. My question is, how is it that you couldn't even tell the bag you were carrying out of the toilet was not your own. Do you just disregard the facts parading themselves before your vacantly unobservant eyes?" The uncomfortably personal and original insult stirred me from my dumfounded reverie. Of course, nothing clever or acerbic came out of my mouth, just "you pretentious asshole." Hey, remember when I was summarizing? Ha.

Anyways, he curtly turned about on his heel and marched out; I suppose he no longer found me to be worth his time. So I spent the rest of my day at the police station reporting my missing, expensive, theft claim, all the while trying to swallow the bile rising to my throat at the audacity and rudeness of Mr. Sexy Coat. Mind you, at this time I was calling him Mr. I Know It All and I'm A Pompous Fuckhead. After five and a half hours at the station I regained my purse, yes the one I had been carrying was not my own. It was a replica filled with the exact weight of my normal purse crap in sugar packets. Embarrassing, so embarrassing. So I took my purse and my other carryon and hailed a cab to my new flat. Way too much money later, I arrived at a sandwich shop. I frustratedly waved after the cab, thinking he took me to the wrong location only to realized the entrance to the set of flats know as 221 Baker St. was above, below and beside the shop, my 'flat' was of course below it. I'm living below a fucking deli. Oh, yeah it's also small and filthy. AND my shipments hadn't arrived yet, so I was looking at sleeping on a sick ass floor in my coat. That was solved by my ever, ever, ever so sweet land lady, Mrs. Hudson, who offered me a 'kip' up on her couch, which I promptly and overzealously accepted. I may have cried. A lot.

And now it's is far too late to continue writing this up so I'll continue with the adventure of the interrupted lunch meeting tomorrow, when I'm sitting on my floor with my computer in old clothes because none of my things are here, still.

Saturday

You know what's hard? Writing in first person. You know what else? This is my fucking journal so I'll write in it as I damn well please. Go go gadget 3rd person narrative, with occasional editorial emendations.

It was Friday. Layla McManis was supposed to be in the café 12 and a half minutes ago, but she was characteristically late. Henry Craig was ever so patiently awaiting his colleague while sipping some terribly weak coffee and perusing the newspaper. Although he wasn't seriously reading, something about a stolen case recovered by online celebrity detective, nonsense really. He thought he'd escaped sensationalist journalism when he left the states. (Yeah, I'm not omniscient, but damn this is more interesting innit? Plus, he related these thoughts to me later) His attention was instead directed towards the bobbing head of someone walking down the street towards him in that familiar stride. He was almost sure it had to be Layla, even after not seeing her for all these years, no one walked that confidently and gracelessly at the same time. And oh God, he thought, she's daring heels. He sniggered as she stumbled into a trash bin. Definitely Layla. As she strode through the café doors, upturning a few stacks of newspapers in her path, Henry rose to embrace her, and save the rest of the establishment from her potentially expensive clumsiness. And while she returned his genuinely enthusiastic smile, hers lacked the warmth of her usual charm. She was worried about something; he could see it in her knitted brow.

"Henry, I have some…" she hesitated clearly trying to choose her words, or edit them "well, to be honest, I have some perfectly shit-tastic news." Henry ignored the abashed glances they received from the other patrons. Layla was never tactful, or quiet for that matter.

"Well, what is it? Please tell me the tablets aren't fakes."

"Oh. Ha, well no. They're genuine. Buuuuuuuut, they're not here." He nodded, completely aware of the situation. "Erm, and I don't actually know where my photos of them are." His face fell. "I may have lost them, or rather, had them lifted off me in Heathrow." She gave Henry her best set of pity-me eyes and grimaced waiting for his response. She was pleasantly surprised when no angry tirade met her bad news. Then she was befuddled when no reaction followed. She looked up to find Henry staring, bemused, at the television screen mounted above the deli's cashier station. Layla turned around to read the screen but was interrupted by a text message from an unknown number

_Yard has recovered your belongings, return en route. Stay where you are._

"What the blithering fu-" she was cut off mid-curse by the sheer shock registering on her colleague's face. "Hen, what is it. You look like you've been kicked in the pants." Without moving his gaze from the screen Henry read out the news line.

"'American scholar's prized research recovered from cult criminals by internet phenomenon Sherlock Holmes.'" Layla rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, yeah and that's hardly news worthy, in other news my photos are on their way over there, I guess this Mr. Holmes works for Scotland Yard, they just contacted me. So all we-"

"I wasn't finished reading: 'The recovery of these photographs has averted the potential death of three young girls tied to the research's connection to human sacrifice…' what kind of bullshit is this Layla?" It was Henry's turn to be on the receiving end of affronted glares.

Layla, however, was unfazed. "You never know what kind of crap the news is going to spin, that's probably just their way of making petty theft good prime time television." She sighed into her cup of coffee. "And you know what the sad thing is, Hen? Our research will probably never be as interesting to the general public as that fantastically overblown news story. I for one-" she was quickly rendered incapably of finishing what was sure to be a well-thought out and mature statement on the intelligence of the modern audience by the news report she had turned to watch.

"That, that, that man. He was, he was in the library. He told me where I was robbed. HE WAS A COMPLETE ASS ABOUT IT!" Her temper was flaring and the sensitive ears of her fellow café customers be damned, she was going to let everyone know how this made her feel.

"THAT UNABASHED BROTHER, FATHER, SISTER, GRANNY MOTHERFU-"

"Layla, he's standing right behind you."

A deep, even voice rang out behind her "It was just this sort of outbreak of profanities that I was attempting to avoid by recovering this case for you Miss McManis. I would have thought such a service would render a statement of thanks, not this katabasis into vulgar slurs."

Locked in what could only be described as an icy stare, Layla found she only had one thing to say to this man.

"That coat! That friggin coat is ridiculous! I know you think it makes you look all sexy and mysterious but really it screams 'I'M A PRETENTIOUS PRICK! LOOK AT ME IN THIS COAT THAT COSTS MORE THAN YOUR CAR. OOH AND IT SWISHES DRAMATICALLY TOO' you know what, never mind that. That coat suits you perfectly _Mr. Holmes_. That's right, I saw your little fluff piece on the television. All about you saving the day, and some adorable virgins, no doubt, by recovering my _research_- they're freaking photos for God's sake- from a fucking cult. I mean what the actual fuck kind of bull shit is that?"

Henry, his normal composure now regained, interjected through Layla's stream of insults a polite greeting and a short thank you after shaking the man's hand.

"You should know, Layla is actually very grateful that you have returned her 2000 pound research to her and saved her all the trouble of an insurance claim and reshipping doubles, she just can't stand admitting it, hence the verbal abuse. She's really quite lovely once you tame her histrionic side."

"I am NOT histrionic. Henry. You. WILL. Pay for that."

"I believe, Miss McManis, histrionic is precisely what you are. However, no need to stir an already raging flame. Here, take your case. This should prevent any other apostrophic rows in the future, quite conveniently, since I do not wish to hear such outbursts in Baker St."

Layla's eyes bulged out of her head at this point. "YOU'RE THE PSYCHOTIC VIOLINIST?"

"Yes, although I would hardly say psychotic. Fervent, yes. Erratic, at times. But I cannot seriously consider my playing to have exhibited any mentally unstable qualities. Besides, I was playing because it helps me think, you wouldn't have your photos back otherwise." And with a stiff nod to Henry, this Sherlock Holmes abruptly turned and marched out of the café leaving Layla agape and Henry grinning.

"You've thought about him naked." He sneered at Layla as she click open the case to inspect its contents.

"I most certainly have not. Whatever gave you that absurd idea?" She didn't even give the statement the good grace of her full attention. She was too busy mentally cataloguing each photograph. So far none were missing.

"I saw how you blushed when you saw him. Then only time you've done that is in public speaking situations and in unforeseen encounters with some 'crush' you have."

"Nonsense, Hen, that was rage boiling my blood. Couldn't you tell by the blood vessels bursting out of my forehead. Pure, Achillean rage." Henry simply chuckled and shook his head. Layla was always stubborn when it came to her 'softer' emotions but Henry couldn't remember the last time he was wrong about one of his observations. Layla had feelings for this guy, even if they were just hate-lust.

"Shit." His jocular mood evaporated as Henry saw the expression on Layla's face. "One of the photos is missing. The one with the extreme close up of the emendation, the beautiful HD quality frame of the pictograph legend. Damn. Oh and, hang on, there's a new photo. It's a stone inscription, maybe lead. Reads, in Proto-Ionic, it seems, 'Life from Death' and then it has a string of Linear A below it!" She looked up, her face betraying a mixture of bewilderment and fascination.

"Sorry, Hen, but I need to go get acquainted with my new neighbor. We can reschedule this lunch." With that she took off, back towards Baker St. and that insufferable Mr. Holmes.

*Hey, hey? Whadya think future, amnesia-having Layla? Fun stuff huh? While the journal entry style allows for more expression of my feelings, I'm pretty sure this narration reads better, so I'll continue it for your sake from now on.*

Sunday

Layla McManis was in love. She sat upright abruptly at 3:38 am the following morning in a state of enraged confusion. Three and a half seconds later she was practically shouting into the mouthpiece of her phone: "HENRY?"

"Yes. What could you possibly want right now Layla? It's fucking 3am."

"Henry, you fucking bastard."

"Now what?" he mumbled to himself "and she denies being histrionic."

"I dreamt about that fucking coat."

"You did what now?"

"I dreamt about that goddamn coat, I think I'm in love with that coat. I want that coat. I need to be inside that coat."

"Layla, listen to me. You're fucked up. Also, you're projecting. Good night. I'm turning off my phone"

"No, but-" At that point Layla was squawking at a dead line. With one final exasperated huff she flipped over onto her side and wrapped her coat around her trying to stave off the cold of her basement apartment floor.

"I wish I had that coat on now" she muttered as she tried to drift off to sleep "after that fight last night, I doubt I'll even see that sartorial wonder again." She felt almost wistful for a moment before angrily flipping back over on her back and shouting at the top of her lungs towards her fireplace (so the sound would carry upstairs, duh.) "And good riddance too! I never want to talk to Mr. Holmes again! The professional douche bag!" But thinking back as she curled up to sleep, that fight was totally worth it.

The following morning Layla decided that the situation called for a more studied hand in the matter and called up her closest and oldest friend, Alex. Then she realized the time difference. What time would it be back home, midnight? Screw the time, this is important, she thought.

Five rings later she heard the crackly voice of her best friend over the line.

"This better be important, Layla. I have a ton of work to do tomorrow and no adorable, smiling Rob to keep me attentive."

"Ah, Alex. I'm sorry, I know it's late but I have a problem."

"What? Are you in jail again? You know I can't bail you out overseas. Ring Henry or whoever you have under your thumb over there. Please, please tell me you didn't punch out a cop or something."

"Whomever, but no, no. It's nothing menial like that. This is important. It's, well…" She squirmed uncomfortably. Layla hated admitting she was a normal human. "It's about love. Or something like love, maybe just lust. Or a crush, I can't tell." The weighted silence over the line made it pretty clear to Layla that Alex was completely astonished.

"Well, what is it Layla? Spit it out! Who is it? Some lovely British guy? AHH that accent! Oh and oh and your children would be all prim and say adorable things like 'nail varnish' and 'loo' ."

"Please, Alex. Breathe. And chill the fuck out. It isn't as simple as that. You see I have this neighbor, and he has this coat. And, well, I sort of hate him. But this coat he has… I seriously love this coat. I gives me, feelings. Special feelings." A groan slipped across the line.

"Layla. Layla, this is... Layla, don't do this to yourself. Just stop being a weirdo and just admit the fact that you like this guy."

"NO. I hate him. He's pretentious and aloof and insensitive and a terrible violinist, well usually he is terrible, I swear he abuses that instrument just to annoy me. I caught him the other afternoon playing Vivaldi. It was incredible."

"See, you do like him."

"Just, listen. I only have feelings of repulsion for the man himself. But I will admit I like his coat and his rendition of Vivaldi's _Spring_."

"Well, at least you're not in denial or anything." Layla scoffed on the other end, clearly not taking her friend's sarcasm well. But she continued "why don't you tell me a bit about your dealings with him and we can find a way for you to get over this weird obsession with his coat, OR maybe we can get you to admit you have feelings for him." She giggled softly when Layla grunted dismissively.

"OK, so tell me about him, paint me a word picture. You know how I do like to live vicariously." The smile in her voice told Layla that Alex was enjoying this far too much.

"Yes, OK, I'll indulge you. But just this once and get that smug grin off your face, it's so clear you're pleased with yourself that I can hear it in your voice."

"Mmm-hmm. I'm no longer grinning."

"Liar. But anyways. So, to begin with: a brief description. He's so British he might as well be leaking tea out of his ears, just so you know." Alex interrupted her.

"Layla, you've woke me up in the middle of the night, you better give me the good stuff. I want physical descriptions, not metaphorical mumbo jumbo."

"That wasn't a metaphor."

"LAYLA"

"Alright, alright. He's about six foot, maybe six one. Thin, but not lanky. Very fair, like pale. Like paler than me, dark curly hair. More like a mop of hair, actually. Long, thin face. Prominent bone structure. Light blue eyes, full of judging judgy-ness. That is all."

"No, I mean, that's a good start but it's hardly a word picture. Right now I'm just imagining Jude Law with no tan and a wig. Hardly original."

"Ugh, fine. You know, being able to imagine the coat would help. This man wears the most expensive clothes I've ever seen. Think suit, and a nice suit, nothing stiff or uncomfortable. Over that this thick, dark overcoat that is about mid leg length with a truly perfect silhouette, broad shouldered, narrow wasted and super whooshy. Also he wears it with the collar turned up, like a douche but it suits since has this ridiculously long neck, not like a giraffe but, you know well suited to a high collar and a scarf. Oh, yes he wears this scarf, like constantly. Yeah, so, got a visual of the outfit?"

"More or less. Continue."

"Yes, good, um now his face. Long, narrow, unsmiling. In fact, he seems incapable of displaying emotions. Anyways, full lips, well mostly. His upper lip looks more like an M than any other lip I've seen. Cheekbones, ridiculous cheekbones. Appropriately sized nose, well shaped. And like I said, light blue eyes. Quite piercing those. So much spite."

"Better, somewhat. Your skills in describing need work but now I have an idea and he sounds like he's right up your alley. Pretty fine to be honest. So what's the problem, I mean besides being mean to you or whatever?"

"ALEX, I'm not nine. He wasn't 'mean' to me. He was an insensitive asshole ." An hour later Layla had related the entire episode concerning the library and the café when Alex interrupted her.

"Lay, dear, he's just a bit aloof. Get over yourself and go flirt with him, you'll feel better."

"No, you don't get it. I haven't told you the worst part yet." She could hear her friends exasperated sigh over the line but did nothing to relieve her of this tiresome duty.

"Listen, I left that café to confront him about the new photo and the other missing one. When I got to the walk up, Mrs. Hudson was flittering all about looking so pleased about her tenants 'getting along' or something. I stormed past her and up the stairs ready to slam into the door until they let me in to speak my mind. For some reason, the door was just open, so I hammered on the door frame until this, this other man came round the corner looking concerned. He was nice enough, introduced himself as John Watson, Sherlock's flat mate or whatever and asked how he could help blah blah. I may have cut him off rather rudely demanding where Sherlock was."

"Wait, wait. Your neighbors are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson? I love that blog!"

"Fuck me."

"Sorry, Layla, but it's good stuff, really fun to read."

"Could you just, please, just let me tell you this?"

"Was he wearing that silly hat? OhmyGOD, your description was so bad, he's gorgeous! Hop on that Layla!"

"SHUT UP. Just shhhhhh and let me finish. John seemed understanding enough and shouted at Sherlock about being careless before he flopped down in this arm chair waving me in. Now, first this apartment was a flipping wreck. Shit everywhere, bullet holes in a wall and spray paint. Multiple skulls and a sick chemistry experiment bubbling away in the kitchen, not to mention the ripe smell of, well, not clean. Now after surveying the place, I'm sure my face completely failed to hide my disgust, so when that prick came out of some back room he just rolled his eyes, surely at my facial expression, and sounding as bored as possible asked me what my complaint could possibly be. I snapped back that I had come to thank him for returning the photos and to find out about the extra picture but if he was going to be so rude he could just go fuck himself. And then I slipped in, incapable of editing myself, that his repulsion at my 'disgusting' language was entirely hypocritical considering the barnyard he lived in. Sniffing he hissed that he could hardly be responsible for keeping a tidy flat while he was busy retrieving other people's belongings. At this point I was beyond tired and really quite frustrated with this man's complete lack of emotion and humor, he was unbearably mechanical. So I shouted just that. He just rolled his eyes and said something under his breath to John, who, to be quite honest, didn't even look like he was paying attention completely immersed in his newspaper. John however quipped "You know she's right Sherlock, you do act like a robot 99% of the time." That was the first time I saw an expression on his face as his lip curled up in a quick expression of disgust. With his back still turned to me he told me to leave the new photograph on the desk and he would look into it. I, of course, had plenty to say to that, but I was cut off when I heard him mumble that his coat was in no way ridiculous and that he puts on no airs by wearing it. I had had enough so I just laughed and stomped down the stairs making extra sure I slammed my door on the way."

"Well, Layla. You've managed to make yourself appear entirely histrionic. You should really try to have a conversation with this man without raising your voice. I think it would startle the stoicness out of him."

"That's, _that's_ what you got out of that? Don't you see? I won that round, he was offended by my comments about his coat!" Alex sighed. Her friend would never change, everything would always be a competition and that was all it ever would be.

"OK, fine Layla, you won. But what are you going to do about it? You're not going to be able to figure out that photo's significance by yourself and as of now, you've ruined your potential relationship with a very useful neighbor. You need to go make amends." Layla grimaced. Contrition was not her strong area.

"Fine. Well, what do you think, ya know… overall? "

"You're in love with him and because he's so difficult you're projecting your emotions onto that coat." Layla scoffed again.

"That's just what Henry said. Boo."

"Well, he was right. The sooner you admit it, the sooner you'll calm down. Now, I'm going back to bed. Good night." Dead line. The conversation had been completely unhelpful. Stupid Henry and his stupid assumptions. Layla was completely disgusted by her friends' inability to see anything but romantic implications in her actions. But Alex was right about one thing. Layla did need Sherlock's help recovering that missing photo, and if she were honest with herself, she really wanted to know more about the cult involvement and the new picture. So she hatched a plan. A plan that would fulfill both of her needs, coat and revenge, well the plan addressed just her seething temper. Her curiosity could be dealt with later.


	2. The Roommate

Several hours later, after far too much vodka and cranberry juice, Layla decided to hatch her plan. She put her hair up in a ponytail, pulled on her pleated skirt and a black jersey top (by this point 5 out of 30 boxes had arrived, thankfully with some clothes, just not my best clothes, just as well, I was planning on breaking and entering who cared what I looked like) and crept up the stairs as quietly as her inebriation allowed, which was none too quiet. When she reached 221 B the door was actually closed. _Good_,she thought to herself, _they must be out. _But she knocked anyways; the last thing she wanted was to be caught lock-picking their apartment with them sitting in their front room. To her great dismay she heard footsteps falling en route to the front door.

"Damn." She mumbled under her breath. Just then John Watson yanked the door open looking a tad put out. When he saw her, however, he made a point to put on friendly smile.

"Evening Layla, can I do anything for you." Layla realized she must be interrupting a rare peaceful evening for the doctor and immediately felt foolish about her plot against his socially impaired flat mate.

"Uhm, sorry, John. Did I interrupt something?"

"Oh no, you didn't interrupt anything, come on in, I'm enjoying the rare silence of a flat without my overly dramatic colleague. Is something the matter?" He looked tired, tired and fed up. He must not have the easiest time with the incorrigible Mr. Holmes either.

"Oh, well to be honest I'm a bit drunk and I wanted to come up here and fuck with Sherlock, audacious prick that he is, by stealing his coat. Buuuuut, seeing as he's not here and therefore his coat probably isn't either, my plot is a bit, well, foiled. Actually, it wasn't that well thought-out to begin with, how was I to steal something from him that he practically always wears while he was out? Never drink before executing a nefarious plot. What?" John was laughing, rather enthusiastically by this point. It was the first time Layla had seen him smile without the compulsion of an uncomfortable social situation, he was adorable when he smiled. _Crap, my vodka muddled brain is losing focus_ she thought to herself as she fell into easy laughter along with Dr. Watson. _Mrs. Hudson mentioned he served in the military a couple years back, I bet he's pretty well built. He may be a bit short for my taste but it's not the size of the dog in the fight, right. Let's have a go. We'll show Henry and Alex just who is smitten with whom._ Her slowly disintegrating chain of thought was cut short by John's final giggle as he pointed to a room over to the side of the flat.

"The funniest part, Layla, is that he left that blasted coat here when he went out. He had some disguise on this evening, something about a specialist convention, he was wearing a cape. I wish you could have seen it." He hardly finished his story before Layla went bounding to the closed door, looking remarkably mischievous as she slipped inside. A delighted squeal followed shortly thereafter and she promptly marched out wearing that magnificent coat. John's face cracked into that impish grin and he started giggling as Layla marched towards him imitating Sherlock's gait.

"Erm, that's actually quite good, Layla. You should stuff your hands in the pockets though, like their too good to be seen by the outside world. There you go, now here the scarf." He snorted as Layla laced through the scarf and put on her most uninterested expression, tilting her chin up and looking down her nose at Watson.

"Oh, god. He would kill us if he could see you right now, that's brilliant. Oh, here, here take the hat!" He basically skipped to the mantelpiece and retrieved the famous cap, tossing it at her like a floppy Frisbee. Layla haughtily pulled the deerstalker over her ponytail and readjusted the turned up collar. Then lowering her voice to her deepest register she drolled out with her best British accent,

"What on earth are you grinning at, surely there must be something more amusing to that empty little mind of yours than an odd hat." But that was all she could get out as the two of them broke into uncontrollable fits of giggles flopping on the couch in the process.

"Ah, it really is a good job Sherlock wasn't here tonight, I haven't laughed that hard at his expense in too long. I'm very pleased to have made your acquaintance Layla. Maybe you can finally drag Sherlock off his high horse with a bit of humor inflicted humility."

Chuckling Layla gasped out, "well that was going to be my point with the coat. I was going to come back tomorrow dressed in my dark suit with this coat on and speak to him like he has to me, well at least try to. I may have ended up resorting to petty mimicry, but it would have at least perturbed him." She broke into a giggle fit again and leaned back against the couch, pulling the coat tighter around her. It smelled good. Too good, like gun powder and sandalwood and just a hint of sickly sweet tobacco, what a mood killer. _Ah, he's a smoker, one pet peeve after another_ she thought to herself and the shadow of disappointment must have shown on her face because John's laughter died off and he sat up looking more closely at her.

"Is something wrong, you look… upset." Layla realized her thoughts were leaking onto her face and she quickly smiled remembering herself. Templing her fingers in front of her face she put her Sherlock impersonation back on and said "Who has time to be upset, emotions only slow you down." She then hopped up and swiveled about on the ball of her foot to execute the Holmes stalk off only to realize she forgot to wear shoes and the wood floor was really slick beneath her stocking.

"Unmph!" She slipped, hat flying onto the floor. She caught a glimpse of her clumsy feet floating in front of her, seemingly in slow motion, before her plummet was unexpectedly averted by John's quick reflexes.

"Careful, now. The last thing I want to do this evening is sew stitches in a drunk woman's scalp." He chuckled as he set her upright.

"Thanks, John. I'm not exactly graceful when I'm tipsy, or ever really. They put bumpers up in my office back at the university to avoid me getting another concussion on the way to my filing cabinet." She grinned sheepishly as John leaned over to retrieve the hat and dusted it off. Placing it smartly atop Layla's head he said,

"No matter, better clumsy and affable than graceful and horrible. There, now you look the part again, well we should probably-" he was cut off in the middle of bidding her good evening. Layla's thoroughly intoxicated mind at that moment had decided that the offhand compliment was good for one lay, and what better time than the present. So she grabbed the sweet doctor by either side of his face and fastened her lips onto his.

Now, she thought that this aggressive an act would be met by surprise and hesitation, but the good doctor employed neither as he seamlessly joined in the pitched battle her mouth was engaging with his own. Two minutes and 34 seconds later she was sitting on top of him on the couch wearing nothing but that bloody coat while attempting to remove his trousers.

"Woah, woah. Slow down, love." He breathed when Layla had dislodged her lips from his and in frustration looked down at his belt buckle.

"What is this, deadlocked?"

John only laughed at her frustration as he grabbed her about the waist and hoisted her off his lap.

"Now, now. The last thing we need is for Sherlock to come in with us doing this in his coat. Come on, slip that off and we'll head to a more reasonable location." At this Layla's jaw set and her brow furrowed. One: she was not taking this coat off for the world and Two: she kind of wanted to get caught, or at least leave hints for Sherlock to work out. All the better to irritate him with.

"Oh, John. How many times has Sherlock used this front room for his own benefit to your disadvantage, without consulting your or even giving the slightest shit? Honestly." John shut his eyes and breathed slowly out of his nose. Layla could tell he was considering her point. She knew she had won the case when she was pulled back on top of him with a whoosh of the coat.

"Get those off." She hissed into John's ear as she nibbled the surrounding cartilage. She was fumbling with the button on his jeans but, as with the belt, was having a hard time undoing it. He happily obliged and Layla licked her lips as she felt the fabric slide down the inside of her legs. Now as she straddled him only one flimsy layer stood between her and the hard warmth below her. She could feel herself moisten as she anticipated him inside of her and soon realized she had let a moan escape her lips. John's reaction was to lurch forward pressing himself onto her bare flesh. Layla bit her lower lip and looked down suggestively at his pants, cocking an eyebrow as she huskily asked,

"And what exactly are those still doing on?" She smiled impishly at him as she stilled his hands and instead dismounted, lowering herself to the floor and tracing a line down his torso with her tongue, pausing right above the hemline of the fabric.

"Sherlock berated me for my filthy mouth. Let's just see how dirty it is." And with that she peeled back his pants revealing his erection and sighed softly. It had been a while since she had performed such a service. She hoped she was still adequate.

Seven seconds later she learned that she was still adept at the art when John gasped and pulled her head back groaning, "do you want this to be a single act show or would you like to wait it out for the headlining event." Layla ran her tongue over her lips and sat back on her heels, secretly pleased with herself for her commendable performance and merely pouted up at John. When he rolled his eyes, Layla took the opportunity to give his head one final scintillating lick before gracefully (possibly for the first time ever) straddling his waist and sliding down around him in one fell swoop. They both gasped as she took him all the way in, tickled by the light breeze playing around their bare abdomens caused by the swinging of the coat's fabric. The air exacerbated all the sensations, and as John watched Layla's nipples grow hard, shrinking into pert little mounds beneath his thumbs, he sighed and she moaned.

"I love this coat."

"Me too." He whispered as they began to rock their pelvises against one another, their rhythm accelerating as their need intensified.

Layla came first. She practically screamed as John pressed his thumb over her clit and as her wet warmth seeped around him, pulsating with her climax, John groaned and thrust upwards one, two, three more times before sinking backwards into the cushions of the couch.

Monday

Really quite early the next morning, especially considering how drunk she had been and how much energy she had expended the previous night, Layla found herself humming contentedly in the shower. Her plan had gone just as well as she would have liked and was, in fact, better. A nice romp on Sherlock's couch was _not_ part of her plan; it was, however, a terrific bonus. She hadn't come that hard in years. She was pretty certain it was the coat. Yes, John was fantastic and the anxiety of getting caught was invigorating, and yes, maybe hearing her name shouted in an English accent accompanied by moans of arousal had always been a part of her sexual fantasies, Layla was still pretty sure she was sexually attracted to that coat, and that that coat had just given her the best fuck of her life.

All these blissful thoughts were harshly interrupted when she heard the screech of her front door opening. She was buck naked in the shower and pretty sure she had locked her door. No, she was certain she had locked her door. Therefore, she was relatively unsurprised when she heard the deep baritone of Sherlock's voice booming through her tiny apartment.

"That is theft, you know." As she stepped out of her bathroom completely naked and dripping (towels were not in the boxes that had arrived and she hadn't thought she needed to bring clothes into her own bathroom) she calmly replied,

"You know that this is breaking and entering." She waited for his response studying the obviously measured expressionlessness of his face. Not a single muscle twitched. _Oh well, it was worth a try_.

"You slept with John." He didn't bother to act embarrassed but continued staring straight into her eyes. She merely shrugged and fluttered her eyelashes a few time replying in a sing-song voice,

"Whatever makes you think that?"

"I don't think it, I observed it."

"Hmmm, I somehow doubt that. When I stole your coat last night, you were nowhere to be found." Her recent conquest had given Layla a good dose of confidence which made dealing with Mr. Holmes surprisingly easy and stress-free. His icy demeanor didn't disquiet her at all.

"John was asleep, naked on the couch, when I arrived home, basking in an array of fluids which were not all his own. The room reeked of you, whatever scent that is, perfume, soap, something. And my coat was missing. I come to your room, my coat is hanging, mildly despoiled by sex on your bathroom door. It too reeks of you, but also… other scents." He cleared his throat and removed the coat from his face tossing it onto her bed. "And you're practically glowing with contentment. Only one suitable conclusion: you slept with John last night while I was infiltrating the cult so investedly concerned with your research." Layla blushed as Sherlock spat the last sentence out and glowered down at her, revulsion playing across his face. She winced as the left of his nose twitched. She knew any crack in that mask was serious and her little plot had done more damage than she had planned on. He swept the coat off her bed and dropped an envelope on the floor before her feet.

"You're welcome." he rumbled, almost too low for her to hear before he stomped off and up the stairs.

"Well…" She said to herself as she stood naked and cold beside her bed "that was what you wanted. You had planned to punish Sherlock Holmes for his affronts against your pride, and there you go, you've sufficiently wounded his. I think he might be jealous." And yet she felt exposed and ashamed. She felt hollow and ungratified. No, not completely ungratified. She didn't regret the romp with John, but the repercussions weren't making her as happy as she had planned. In fact, she felt bad for Sherlock.

"Is he jealous of John, or of me?" She wondered aloud. She had noticed the rather strange relationship between the two men. Although to her, it had seemed more psychologically co-dependent than romantically. But John did agree with her about the coat. "I mean, he fucked me with his best friend's coat on. That's a little fucked up. At least it wasn't from behind." She shivered at that last thought, not her favorite position and the mental images that flitted before her eyes aroused her a bit and then she felt guilty. "Oh, I need a boyfriend. My brain is stooping to some really debase depths." She continued hustling about her room gathering her only fresh clothes in a sad attempt to make a decent outfit.

"Although…" she murmured "he said something about a particular scent of mine. I don't wear perfume or use scented soap." in fact this morning was the first shower she had taken in town with proper soap. She had used hand soap before.

"Hmmm, he recognizes my scent. So maybe it is me. No. He hates me." And like that she let the idea scamper off to hide in the recesses of her brain as she bent over to collect the large envelope.

Inside it was the photo, in pristine condition, with a sticky note on top of it that read _Sorry for the inconvenience._

"Balls." Now she felt really bad. He was out last night, not on some fool's errand to make a buck or a name for himself, but finishing the favor she had yelled at him about the night before.

"Jiminy Christmas. I'm an ass." She sighed as she made her decision. She was going to regret doing this. _He_ was going to make her regret doing this, but she needed to, for her conscience, at least.

She was up the stairs in a dash, no make-up, wet hair, but she didn't care. This wasn't about being sexy like last night, this was about morals. Or at least that's what she kept telling herself.

"Oh. I can't say that _that_ is much of an improvement upon before. What is that? A polyester sweater? And those trousers. When there is a hole the size of my fist in the garment, it's hardly serving its purpose." He stood in the doorway, blocking Layla's entrance, his lip actually curling in disgust as he surveyed her outfit.

"By the way, I've already seen the 'all laid bare' shock tactic. Hardly original. And _she_ pulled it off better than you." Well, there it was. She had told herself she'd regret this. And now, now she was definitely regretting it. Her self esteem rolled with the punches for now, but she wasn't sure how much more of this sort of abuse she could take.

"You know, I don't wear perfume."

"What? What has that to do with anything? I'm ridiculing your appearance, not your scent. Oh." his brow knitted for a flash as Sherlock realized what she was referring to. "Then some soap or deodorant."

"I use unscented." His nostrils flared and he exhaled sharply.

"Fine, then you have a rather _pungent_ natural scent." Good. That was exactly what she wanted to hear. Although, just what she was hoping to achieve by that was even unclear to her. He continued to glare at her as her eyes involuntarily began to fill with tears. He was unphased and she was furious her emotions were betraying her.

"OK, yes. I'm _pungent_. Fine. Good. I apologize for being all _pungent_ in your coat and marring it with my noisome-ness. "

"Oh, do cease the histrionics. What do you want? Another go with John? If you choose to pursue that course of action please do so in a more suitable location. The couch is completely disgusting." Layla closed her eyes and let her shoulders fall. She gave up. No more abuse, she couldn't take it this early in the morning especially before the long day of translation that lay ahead.

"Sherlock, please. Just be still for a moment. I came up here to apologize to you. We got off on the wrong foot and I never properly thanked you for getting my crap back, it was a truly invaluable service. So here I am thanking you. Besides, if we're going to be neighbors, there needs to be some kind of friendly accord between us. So now that you've offended me to the point of tears, let's call it even and behave like adults from here on. Good?" He didn't break his stare and he nodded, nearly imperceptibly and turned about leaving the doorway clear and open.

As Layla inched inside the apartment she caught a last glimpse of his jacket as he whisked into his room. From behind the door he called out, probably as an afterthought:

"That additional picture was for your benefit. I hope it fulfills its purpose."

A bit confused, but relieved to have achieved some level of peace between the two of them, Layla tiptoed up the stairs and knocked on John's door. He opened up in a bit of a fluster and relaxed into an easy smile when he saw Layla.

"Ah, hi. Glad it's you. Sherlock has been taking the piss out of me for our little escapade last night. I thought you were him back for more scolding. He did NOT appreciate his coat's participation in the affair. And boy did he let me know of his disapproval." He rubbed a hand through his short sandy hair as he leaned more heavily on the door jamb.

"Yeah, I just caught the tail end of it downstairs. He sure does abhor me. He's treating me as though I just despoiled his first born child." John grinned, or maybe it was a grimace. Layla wasn't quite sure.

"I don't think he hates you. I think he, er, disapproves of the whole set up." Realizing he was leaving the woman he had just slept with to scuff her toe nervously along the hallway floor John stepped back from the door to wave her into his room. "Come on in, it's a bit small but we can sit on the bed?" The last bit of his statement almost sounded like a question.

"No, thank you, John. I need to finish getting ready for work and, as Sherlock just so kindly pointed out, I'm looking, um, disheveled at best right now." She managed a small smile as John sighed and shook his head.

"That's not the word he used was it?"

"No, not even a bit. It was more like a novel on how shitty I look. I may have teared up a bit at the end."

"God. I'm sorry. He's such an insensitive ass sometimes. You're not the only one, you know. He's rude to everyone, it's like he needs medication for it sometimes. There's another girl. Molly. He's the worst to her and she just fawns all over him. It's quite sad, for her, Sherlock couldn't care less." He laid a hand on her shoulder and made a point to meet her eyes. "I think you look fine, it's an… original look." Layla smiled despite herself.

"Thanks, it helps I'm not the only one. Usually, I don't let that kind of stuff get to me, I know I'm a bit… eccentric in my dress and I'm certainly not a supermodel, but I'd like to think I look better than a homeless person. At least sometimes. He also, um, may have seen me, um, nude, this morning when he came in to confront me about the coat incident. He was, well, not even nonplussed at best by the sight. Not exactly chicken soup for the ego, that."

"Ha. The naked lady. Yeah, he's encountered that before. He was as openly unabashed then as this morning, I'm sure. Don't take it personally. He puts up a good façade. The last time Irene used that one on him, he was smitten for months and at the time of the nakedness he seemed completely and entirely unconcerned." John cocked an eyebrow when Layla still refused to meet his gaze, clearly out of embarrassment. "What? What else did he say?"

"Yeah, well, he, um, he mentioned that occasion and may have hinted that I was well a poor comparison to the original." She blushed with her last words, ego still licking its wounds.

"No. No. No. Layla, no. I saw the _original_ and I can tell you with all certainty that you are a finer example of your sex, Irene was… lacking in certain departments. I've always preferred a woman with curves."

"Ha. That's just a polite way of saying that you don't mind a heavier lady. No, it's OK John. I'm secure with my body. I don't even know why I let _him_ get to me like that. His words just cut like other people's can't."

"Yeah, I know the feeling." John tilted her face up and leaned in searching Layla's eyes with a knowing gaze.

"JOHN"

"Ignore him." He leaned closer in as Layla rocked forward. The comfort approach always worked on her.

"JOHN! I NEED YOU. THERE'S A BODY IN THE TUBE AND LESTRADE WANTS MY OPINION ON THE MURDER WEAPON." John rolled his eyes as Layla pulled away. The moment was gone. John peeked his head around the door.

"Just go on your own Sherlock. You made it really clear earlier that I'm dispensable, so go on rid yourself of me and deal with the javelin or lead piping or whatever it is on your own." The footfalls on the stairs made it pretty clear that Sherlock was not going to give up that easily. He was going to extract John from that American minx's talons one way or another.

"Are you dressed, _Layla_? I saw enough of you for a lifetime this morning."

"Hey, Sherlock. Enough. She apologized, now be nice." John pulled the door open and planted his feet in front of his friend who blatantly avoided looking past him at the hurt girl shrinking behind John.

"Yes, fine. Now come on. The longer we take the less clear the wound will be." Sherlock turned around and began to jog down the stairs. "Lestrade thinks the gash is from an ice pick. I'm pretty sure it will prove to be from a wooden hair pin, we'll soon find out!" John shot an apologetic look at Layla who was already trying to melt into the woodwork. She couldn't figure out why, but Sherlock's ignoring of her hurt possibly even more than his insults.

"Go ahead, John. It's not like you and I…" She didn't even know how to finish that statement. "I mean, I've only known you for a couple of days." She pushed past him and ran down the stairs avoiding the glare of the perturbed detective and fleeing the compassion of the concerned doctor. Down, down, down the stairs to her basement cave where her infuriating neighbors would hopefully leave her alone. She could hear the argument ensuing upstairs, voices rumbling through the old walls, moving down the stairs and pausing on the ground floor before falling silent. No doubt, Sherlock convinced John to leave her alone down there.

"That's it," Layla mumbled to herself "I'm having nothing more to do with the Baker St. boys. They're nothing but trouble, plus I don't want to play Yoko here. Sorry, John. Hope you got what you wanted last night, I'm cutting you off before it gets complicated."

"You're quiet this morning." Henry crooned as he leaned over Layla to look at the photo she held half an inch from her face "Long night?"

"What, what is it Hen? You've something to say. Just spit it out."

"You had sex with him didn't you? You vixen. I swear, it never takes you more than a weekend to get in your target's pants." Layla set the photo down and pulled the cotton gloves off her hands, stretching and rolling her neck about.

"No, Henry. I did not sleep with Sherlock Holmes."

"Ah, so the roommate then, huh?" She let slip an exasperated groan.

"How? How? You always know. How do you always know?" She swiveled about in her chair to lock her eyes on her smiling friend, sitting there so pleased with himself. The smug bastard.

"Ah, I have my ways. You're certainly less on edge. The lack of bitching is always a good sign. A good lay always leaves _you_ a touch more placid."

"If that's your sex rubric than you must be a freaking coitus god. I've never seen you worked up." Henry smiled even broader and leaned back in his chair resting his feet on the table.

"Yep, you caught me. Daddy gets his sugar."

"Oh, lord. I could've lived an entire lifetime without hearing that sentence dribble out of your mouth." She laughed unreservedly at this point, it had been such a weird day it warranted this silliness.

"You should know," she continued "it was nothing serious. I don't even plan on pursuing it further."

"Yeah, I figured. You have your sights set on… a taller order." The pocket dictionary hit him square between the eyes. Too bad it didn't put an end to his cackling. "I know you, Layla McManis. You'll be back in their apartment quite soon, I'm sure, setting a trap to lure in that mysterious detective. He had you at first glance, how could Layla M pass up those cheekbones and piercing eyes. You've always gone weak in the knees for intense guys and Sherlock Holmes set the bar in that category. Mark my words, you'll be back up there tonight I bet."

Henry was half right. Layla was back in 221 B that night, but not for Sherlock Holmes.

"And you thought he hated you before. When Sherlock finds out that our little escapade disturbed his experiment on the degradation of tongues in bog water, or whatever, he'll never forgive you."

"You were the one who suggested the kitchen. I can't help the involuntary spasms that follow my orgasm."

"You kicked the table over."

"You did a funny thing with your tongue."

They were lying on the kitchen floor gleaming with sweat. This was not what Layla had intended to achieve that evening. She had originally come up to discuss the translation she finished that afternoon in relation to the cult piece Sherlock had given her. It just so happened that Sherlock was out playing blood hound for his brother and John was cooking, half-naked. Some things Layla just couldn't resist.

"We can't tell him this happened, I need his help with this cult activity thing, I'm far too invested to stop caring at this point."

"He's going to find out anyway, Layla." John flipped over on top of her. "We might as well make the most of it." He grinned, quite pleased as Layla's mouth fell open into a graceful 'o.' She could feel his tip peeking into her folds twitching in anticipation, this was unaided by his rhythmic massaging of her left nipple.

"I agree" she managed to exhale as he pushed a little further inside of her and gently tugged at her nipple for good measure.

"Well, I hope you don't mind a post-coital trip to Bart's. I will be needing a replacement batch for those tongues. Congratulations on being on top this time, John. I'm glad she let you be the man at least once." John and Layla both gasped as Sherlock's cool derision fell out onto them in waves. Neither of them bothered trying to cover themselves up, Sherlock had undoubtedly already perceived everything with his keen gaze before they were aware of his presence.

"It's a good job too, Sherlock. " John said propping himself up on his elbow, not to pull himself out of Layla, just to cut an eye at his preposterous roommate. "The whole concoction had become terribly noxious."

"Good. Joking, I'm glad you're in good spirits. You'll need them in the storm whipping up outside." He stepped over them to tuck a sealed box of what looked to be kidneys in the door of the refrigerator. Striding back into the sitting room, Sherlock flopped onto the couch and templed his fingers perching them against his chin. "And Layla, I'll be glad to discuss your linguistic discoveries whenever it suits you, although preferably once your rid of the patina of intercourse and fully clothed, but I suppose now is fine too."


	3. The Cult

One hot shower and her favorite set of pajamas later Layla was perched on the coffee table animatedly detailing her latest research findings. What was even more exciting was Sherlock's response to her monologue. He was attentive throughout and she even caught him smiling softly when one of her particularly interesting findings played across her lips.

"It seems that the final section of the 33a tablet includes a list, not of the normal palace revenue and quotidian costs, but of a sacrifice. A human sacrifice. AND the best part is, from the supplies and the epithet given to the deity it seems to be a cult ritual for Dionysos! Now, we've speculated for a couple of decades that Dionysos was in fact a hold-over from Minoan civilization, but this is a sure proof. Here, in the dedication they call him the bull-horned one, an epithet still used in Euripides' time. They're offering up goats, _fawns_ and youths. NOT virgins. It all points to Dionysos."

"Fascinating."

"What? Did you just-"

"Nothing, do continue." Layla stared at Sherlock in disbelief. She was pretty sure he had just complimented her. He of course was unreadably gazing at the photo in his hands.

"Well, actually that was about it, but it does play right in with what something a modern cult would want. The mysteries of Dionysos were often rumored to promise a 'better afterlife' but all the literature about the cult highlighted the blessedness of the current life for the initiates of his rites leading many to conjecture in later centuries that the cult practices endowed immortality or some variation thereon."

"Yes. That's it, of course." Sherlock almost shouted as he sprung off the couch and began pacing the length of the sitting room.

"Who! What?" John bolted from his napping spot in the comfy armchair beside the fire, he had slept through Layla's entire schpeal. "Is something wrong?"

"No, John. Do return to your repose. You're not needed currently and you'll need your rest after two bouts of sex within 24 hours." John settled back down in the lounger and Sherlock continued his deduction-fueled rant.

"This explains the disappearances. The cult practitioners know from past catalogues of rituals that they required two youths but without an expert in ancient cultures they wouldn't know that this meant males, so they resorted to the usual virginal sacrifices and were coming up with no results. Of course the police never caught onto the pattern because the youths of today no longer broadcast their sexual awareness, or lack thereof, thus there was no evidence to tie the various victims of the investigations together. Furthermore, the proper celestial alignment only occurs for a month every five years or so, making the disappearances appear random. This is compounded by the fact that there are never any bodies found." He paused when he heard Layla groan. "What? What have I said?"

"The bodies. They never find the bodies because there aren't any left when the ritual is complete. Dionysos was also called Omophagos."

"Eater of raw flesh, of course!" Sherlock was basically bouncing in place at this point "Brilliant, I should keep a Classicist around for consultations." Layla blushed at this point and was really glad John was asleep and Sherlock too bouncy to notice her flush. "Layla." Sherlock interjected excitedly "You're coming with me tomorrow, I need you there for reference. Be ready at 8 am sharp." And quick as that he dashed off leaving Layla to collect her things and hobble down to her room for six measly hours of sleep.

Tuesday

She was dreaming. She had to be. There was no way this would be happening any other way. Besides, here she was in her bed, what better place to stage a dream. But no, no that didn't make sense, why would she be dreaming about lying in her own bed, in her own boring bed, doing absolutely nothing interesting. Just lying. In her normal pajamas, with morning breath. Yep, she was awake, her tongue felt like a carpet and there was Sherlock, grinning like the devil, half a foot away from her face.

"Oh good. You're awake. Here, take this," he threw a lump of dark fabric on top of her bed clothes, "and strip down. You'll need to wear just those. Thankfully you don't wear any scents. Also, pull up your hair into one of those bun things. You needn't bother with any cosmetics. The plainer the better."

"Nope, not dreaming" she mumbled under her breath as Layla disentangled herself from the blankets and the enormous wad of material he had dumped on top of her.

"No, of course not. Now, hurry up." he paced around the room, hands clasped behind his back, eyes locked on an undetermined point in front of him.

"Um, Sherlock? What time is it and why are you even here? More importantly, why are you smiling?" Sherlock's face smoothed back into its usual marble expression as his eyes snapped onto Layla. She was standing in front of him, shoulders slumped, hair a nest of sandy locks on top her head, feet bare and shivering, stifling a yawn. She had never looked less like a professional woman, but she couldn't care. She wasn't even sure this was reality.

"It's 5:32, I'm here to rescue you from your useless reverie and I was smiling because I have a very promising lead. Now dress. Quickly." He nodded towards the fabric making no attempt to turn his back, he was clearly going to stand there waiting for her to get ready.

"But. But, you're not wearing _that_. Aren't you going to get dressed as well?"

"Yes, but only after I'm sure you're not going to go back to sleep."

"Useless reverie…" Layla was mumbling to herself as she pulled off her bottoms while still trying to cover her exposed skin "Sherlock, I was sleeping. That isn't useless. Nor does it require me being rescued. Don't you sleep?"

"Not when there's something more interesting to do." She could tell he was growing impatient when he snatched her bottoms from her and thrust a tube of black cotton into her hands "Put that on first, it's a tunic-"

"I know what it is, Sherlock. Could you, ya know, give me some privacy?"

"Why? I've seen it all already and you didn't seem so embarrassed before." She exhaled violently as she pulled her top off glaring at him. Why did he have to stand so near? Did he have no sense of personal space? He took the cotton tee and folded it before stuffing it into a satchel Layla hadn't noticed hanging off his shoulder.

"Can I at least keep my under things on?"

"Yes. Why would that matter?"

"Uh, well… you said strip."

"Hmm." Sherlock seemed bored and more intent upon something else, not even bothering to mock her for her silly comment.

"OK, I'm ready." His attention snapped back as he looked her over.

"That'll do, tuck you hair in though. There must be nothing light in color visible. No, no. Under the hood. Do you have something to pin it back with?" He was struggling to make a stubborn lock stay flat beneath Layla's hood. His long fingers playing with her hair, grazing her forehead and scalp. He was so close she could feel his warmth, smell him. Layla breathed in, that unnamable heady scent she recognized from his coat. Oh no.

"Not the coat." She breathed out-loud and Sherlock twitched before stepping back to look her in the eye.

"What about my coat?" Layla's eyes bulged for a second when she realized she had spoken her thoughts.

"Erm," she paused, frantic for an explanation "It's just," she forced a haughty tone before snapping out "you can't wear that fantastically fashionable coat, while I'm stuck wearing this thing." Sherlock's eyes narrowed for a second, clearly not buying her reply, before resuming his wrestling bout with her unwieldy hair. Clearly he was more concerned with quickening their departure than figuring out the motives driving her defensive outburst.

"There." he seemed pleased enough with his work one bobby pin and two sprigs of product later. "Now, don't touch it. We can't afford to waste any more time on your ridiculously intransigent hair." He quickly turned about and sped out of the room and up the stairs two at a time with Layla tumbling over herself to keep up.

By the time she reached the top of the stairs her hair was all a-mess again and she was perfectly out of breath. The cloak was huge, big enough for a full grown man like Sherlock, and therefore swallowed Layla in all her five-six glory. She tripped over it constantly.

"Sherlock! Do I have to wear this, it's impossible to walk in, please say you have some shoes for me. My feet are frozen." Her voice trailed off with her last word as she rounded the corner and caught sight of Sherlock changing in the doorway of his bedroom. He had already pulled on a pair of loose black trousers and was in the process of changing into a matching cotton shirt, ivory torso burning into Layla's retinas before he pulled in down over his head. _Freaking marble statue_ Layla was astonished, and honestly, aroused. First, that intoxicating scent of his, now his stupidly well formed abdomen, hip bones peeking out from his trousers casting perfectly enticing shadows across his alabaster skin-

"No. You must wear that and that alone." He rushed past her pulling the cloak around him, bare feet padding across the kitchen floor "Layla. You've mussed your hair. Have John fix it while I pack the essentials." He didn't even look at her as he pointed towards John's room. John. How could Layla forget about delightful ,adorable, _kind_ John. John, who made her feel lovely, not like an idiot wearing a potato sack, constantly. But John didn't look- didn't smell like. John wasn't Sherlock. But maybe that was why she should stick with him, reliable John. Not too short, not too tall. Not too plain, not too stunning. Just John. With his stumbling fingers and urgent kisses, they got the job done, well in fact. But Layla wondered what a more _refined_ touch could achieve, those long fingers so deft on the violin neck, his full lips, probably as delicate and capable as those fingers and that long, taut body-

"Layla? Didn't you hear me? March." Sherlock was staring at her, a curious expression etched in his face. She couldn't tell if it was confusion or amusement. Oh God, could he read her face? She bet she was drooling.

"Right, up I go." And she jogged up the stairs, tripping twice. She knocked cautiously twice on John's door with no reply.

"Don't worry about waking him, I heard him earlier, he's awake. Knock again." She rapt the door again.

"What is it Sher- oh, Layla" John retreated behind the door and grabbed a dressing gown, plastering a smile on his face. He clearly wasn't happy about her being here but he was always the gentleman.

"Sorry for bothering you this early, um, Sherlock wanted, he, um, he told me to have you fix my hair." She looked positively dejected as she let the last few words fall from her lips and dropped her chin to her chest. John stifled a sigh and set about re-pinning the now stiff lock of hair. It was sticking straight up in the air now, even worse than before Sherlock resorted to the product.

"What've you got in your hair? It's like trying to move pavement." John glared at the offending hair before stumbling down the stairs and waving Layla after him. He rummaged around in a drawer before turning back towards Layla with what looked like Scotch tape in his hands. Five minutes later and a good quarter roll of tape on the top of Layla's hair, John nodded, proudly inspecting his handiwork.

"John, you didn't seriously use Sellotape, did you?" Sherlock appeared behind the doctor his lip twitching as he maneuvered around his friend. "Well it certainly did the trick. How much did you use?"

"About a meter." John was exercising all of his will power to keep from laughing at the disgruntled woman standing before him. Sherlock had no such courtesy, his deep, rolling chuckle washed over Layla and suddenly she didn't feel so irate. She'd never heard him laugh before, she would have remembered if she had. It was entrancing and she could feel its vibrations thrumming through to her very core. _Shit_. She could feel herself falling for this complete ass of a man, standing in front of her laughing at her ridiculous predicament. And she had tape all in her hair, it would take hours to extricate without tearing her fine strands. This was going to be a trying day.

"You can both eat it." She grumbled as she flipped her hood over her head as dramatically as possible and pushed her way between them, a move she immediately regretted since she could feel the solidness of Sherlock's unmoving chest through the thin cotton against her shoulder as she bounced off of him and into John who politely leaned out of her way resting a gentle hand on the small of her back.

"Sorry, love. I know it'll be a pain to take care of later, but I couldn't manage it otherwise." He moved off to make a cup of tea pulling his robe tighter about him, a move that might have caught Layla's attention all of twelve minutes before that, revealing all his lines and angles in the fabric. But now, now, after her encounter with Sherlock she felt nothing. Great, that assuming man had assumed himself all over her private thoughts making her current fling all the less appealing. _But there's nothing wrong with John,_ Layla chided herself, _true, but there's nothing particularly right, is there?_ Her inner voice was getting cheeky, and single-minded. She would have to remedy that. For now, however, she would have to rein in her more, erm, base thoughts and go gallivanting off after Sherlock on some mad goose chase. At least they would both be wearing these shapeless cloaks.

"I thought nothing was meant to be seen of the worshipper, hence the horrendous black frocks!"

"Yes. Well, they're not. Unless, they're chosen as part of the ritual_, apparently_."

Now Layla's imagination had no need to strain while envisioning Sherlock_, all_ of Sherlock. He was very clearly on display to her right then, and she to him, not that that was a first.

"So, when were you going to tell me that we were part of the ritual? Hmmm?"

"I wasn't inclined to believe that we would be. This was not a turn of events that I foresaw. When I received my lead this morning, they neglected to inform me that we were taking the place of the newest initiates." Layla shifted uncomfortably, painfully aware of every eyeball resting on her exposed flesh. Sherlock, however, stood upright, hands folded behind his back; he seemed to have no qualms about being stark naked in front of several dozen people.

"Well, then what now?" her voice was barely a whisper at this point. She tilted her head up to look into Sherlock's face. It was blank, as usual, but his eyes were distant. He was thinking, and quickly.

"I'm working on it." The firelight played across his face, reflecting in his eyes and off his dark hair. Layla glanced around and noticed the circle of fawn-skin clad worshippers closing in on them, torches and staffs in hand.

"No pressure or anything but they seem to be _closing in_ and I really don't want to know what they're going to do next. I know we won't be eaten or anything but modern takes on orgiastic cult are never, well, delicate or polite."

"Thinking." Sherlock hissed.

"Oh God. Oh God. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod."

"What?"

"They're, erm, they're all disrobing…" The look on Layla's face was sure to be hilarious in any other situation. She's heard stories about weird cult orgies and strange group sex performances but she'd never taken the time to think about what they would entail. "Sherlock, Sherlock." Her voice was almost a squeak at this point. "Sherlock, I think I know what's about to happen and I'm not especially keen on it." Sherlock snapped from his trance and took the opportunity to sneer at her.

"What after all your fornicating with John you're no longer interested in exploring your options. Please don't tell me you're in _love_."

"Oh, Sherlock, stop this. You know what I mean, I may enjoy _it_ but I have no intention of having multiple anonymous partners in a freaking sewer, especially not with you standing there judging me."

"Actually, I think you have deduced incorrectly." He cocked an eyebrow as Layla opened her mouth to snarl abuse at him. "I believe that they are planning to engage in an orgy while _we_ copulate, on that altar, there." He nodded over to his right at an elevated platform bedecked with cushions. "First, there will be large quantities of wine, laced with what I expect to be a hallucinogen, probably lysergide."

"What!" Layla couldn't keep her voice down at this point.

"Come now, you've heard of it surely… LSD, acid-"

"Yes, I know what it is, I'm a bit more preoccupied with everything else that's going on." Her eyes were bulging and her nostrils flaring as she kept her sights firmly locked on Sherlock's left cheekbone. She was acutely aware of a number of… body parts surrounding her that she didn't really want to see just then.

"Layla, you must calm down. Surely you aren't that surprised. You _are_ the expert in these matters-"

"NOT MODERN TAKES ON PERFECTLY RESPECTABLE CULT PRACTICES" she kept her voice to a whisper this time but she was clearly screaming inside.

"Breathe, you must breathe, Layla. I need you fully alert for my plan to work." Layla breathed a sigh of relief, a plan was good. A plan meant escape. A plan meant no exhibitionist sex with Sherlock fucking Holmes. _Not that it would be _that _bad_.

"I'm bloody well breathing you great ass. Now get us out of here." Sherlock shook his head ever so slightly. That's when Layla realized this was going to be a beyond trying day.

"Follow my lead." He bobbed his head to her and took hold of the torch from the grating between them and then sauntered over to the altar. As Layla hesitantly tiptoed behind him, keeping her eyes up, a trilling filled the room. The women were screaming, _ululating_ the overly clinical side of Layla's brain intoned. Then the male voices picked up chanting 'I-accho I-acche' _yes of course calling Dionysos to witness_. Layla really wished she could turn her brain off sometimes.

"Lord!" a pitchy woman's voice shouted over the ceremonial chants "Lord, we beseech you. Come to us and fill us. Fill us with your immortal glory." She finished her prayer and drank deeply from an ornate goblet. _Not exactly a proper mixing bowl_. Layla shook the classicist's cynical thoughts from her head. Focus. She had to focus and follow Sherlock's subtle instructions. As the goblet made its way about the circle she could see the wine take its affect, the revelers were becoming more ecstatic, swaying in place and moaning. Some were even turning to the neighbors and performing certain _services_.

Layla stopped beside the altar and looked up at Sherlock who had already hopped atop it and was sitting cross legged and seemingly cool as a cucumber.

"How are you so calm?" she hissed up at him as she stiffly tried to pull herself up onto the altar, it was quite high and she was quite terrified, shaking and trying not to think about how many people were getting are really choice view of her backside. Sherlock simply shrugged his shoulders and tapped the cushion beside him indicating for Layla to take a seat next to him. She plopped down and crossed her arms and legs concealing as much of her private areas as she could.

"Now, listen carefully." Sherlock dropped his voice so low Layla could barely hear him. She was unnervingly aroused by the sound of it. _Not now_ she pleaded with herself as she focused on Sherlock's quiet rumblings. "In a moment the last in the circle will hand us the ceremonial wine, we must look as though we've drunk of it, but don't, don't Layla. We need to be unimpeded by the drug's effects, which are quite strong from the looks of it." He nodded towards the far end of the circle to their left where all the celebrants were already partaking in the joys of the ritual, enthusiastically.

"Afterwards, we need only imitate the motion of the rights until all the cult members are fully overcome with the drug. It should take less than five minutes. He was leaning towards her, whispering into her ear as though a lover in confidence. All part of the act. He stopped and turned to accept the goblet, lifting it to his lips but not allowing the wine to touch them. He swallowed to complete the pretense and handed it to Layla, not a hint of emotion on his face. As Layla tilted the goblet to pretend to drink she wondered how Sherlock was going to convince the hallucinating cult that he was also overcome by the effects of the drug, and then she didn't need to wonder any more. She saw him swaying out of the corner of her eye, ever so slightly, playing the part perfectly. After she handed the goblet to the final attendant she too began to act dazed, letting her head nod as she watched the man take a deep draught and then pour the remainder as a libation upon the floor. Her attention was drawn back to Sherlock's presence when he, rather forcefully, grabbed hold of her wrist and spun her towards him. She was taken off guard and audibly gasped but was quickly calmed by the ice in Sherlock's eyes, that same steely gaze, no heat or wildness there. It was all part of the act, so she played along, slowly laying herself back upon the sumptuous pillows and drapings, retaining eye contact all the while. Sherlock shook his head minutely, warning her not to take it too far, it needed to be believable, not real. But Layla couldn't help herself, she was aroused, naked on platform with a man who in all seriousness reminded her of a marble statue of Apollo.

Now that she could see him in his entirety she couldn't help but admire his frame, it was elegant, well shaped and flawless. And thoroughly un-aroused. That wasn't going to help with their little pantomime. Layla lifted an inquisitive eyebrow pointedly looking down at his member and then back up into Sherlock's eyes and saw his nostrils flare. She could tell he caught her hint and was thoroughly incensed by its implications. She lifted her entire brow and tilted her head to the side lifting the corners of her mouth into a falsely apologetic grin. His eyes widened and his lips pursed, he was either embarrassed or furious, or both; Layla couldn't properly tell. Sherlock leaned over Layla's recumbent form simultaneously moving her leg so that her thigh hid his not-so-convincing body parts_. Well played_ Layla thought as she smiled approvingly. To complete the show Sherlock began moving rhythmically above her and grunting convincingly. When Layla continued to lie there motionless, clearly in shock while her over stimulated brain tried to block the sex noises Sherlock was imitating from her thoughts, Sherlock snarled "Play the part" in her ear. She ignored him, she needed to focus on something else._ Oh good gracious he's grunting. Don't think about what his real sex noises would sound like_. It was too late, she could feel herself moistening and her nipples hardening, a flush spreading through her body. She looked up in time to see the look of shock register on Sherlock's face. Of course he would notice, he noticed everything. And there it was, she knew it would come, the look of disgust. He leaned in, pretending to nuzzle her neck and breathed menacingly into her ear,

"You simply must be kidding right now, pull yourself together, woman." Unfortunately this motion resulted in his long lean body pressing up against her own for a fraction of a second, but just long enough to cause Layla's breath to catch and Sherlock's bits to brush against her own. She bucked up instantly in response to the fleeting touch against her sensitive flesh. Sherlock sucked in air sharply through his mouth and the muscle to the left of his nose twitched menacingly, he was not amused. And still not aroused. That was a sobering thought for Layla and she suddenly regained her composure as though a bucket of ice water had been poured over her. A few seconds later Sherlock completed his act feigning orgasm and rolling away from her. There was no need for her to pretend, she lay there gasping. Not with pleasure but to hide her tears. She had never been so embarrassed in her entire life. As the warm flow of a single tear snaked down her cheek she felt her cloak flutter above her and land suddenly upon her prickling skin. Sherlock had tossed it from beside the altar and was standing, clothed with his back towards her waiting for her to cover herself and dismount the platform.

They walked the three blocks to the main road in unsettling silence before hailing two separate cabs back to Baker St.

A trying day indeed.


	4. The Lesson

Monday

Yeah, I know, it's been a while since I've written. Not much going on to be honest. After the whole, most embarrassing situation of my entire existence, thing I decided I could go without popping into 221B and bringing all those unpleasant memories to the surface. Not to mention that this way I felt less guilty about John. He didn't try to get in contact with me, which hurt my feelings at first but it's probably for the best. Sherlock probably told him everything that happened in excruciating detail. That would surely elicit a long term silence from upstairs. Or permanent.

So, besides that I've finished doing what I could with another tablet. Nothing exciting. Henry is leaving day after tomorrow for six weeks so I'll be able to work on my own schedule, which is both good and bad. Good- for the leniency. Bad- for the leniency. Actually, now that I think about it, it's probably all bad. He is also the only person I have to talk to here, now. Oh well. Time to branch out?

In other news, that whole cult thing met again the next day. The police caught them in the act of eating two people. Two people found torn apart. Two people found torn apart with black robes surrounding their mangled corpses. I was almost a mangled corpse. On that note, I think I'll go up and talk with John tomorrow. I need a friend, or a good shag. Hopefully I can manage both.

Tuesday

*Resuming 3rd person narrative, this is too ridiculous to tell in my own voice.*

Layla woke up the next morning feeling groggy and lethargic. _Nope. Not going to the museum today. Shower? Maybe. Food? That would require going to the shop, so probably not. _

"Should I even get out of bed?" She wondered aloud. No one replied. She knew no one would but it was worth a try, maybe she could will a friend to extract her from her lethargy. That was also unsuccessful. Her stomach, however, had other plans. It growled. Then again, and when it persisted, changing pitch and even enunciating syllables, Layla rolled out of bed and shuffled to her bathroom.

"Holy mother of God. I could kill people on sight going out like this." Her hair was a matted disaster site, stubborn ends sticking out every which way, random curls and creases mangling her normally straight locks. Also she found another bit of Scotch type hanging doggedly onto the end of an especially obnoxious strand. She sighed as she tried to pry it from the hair without ripping it, failing of course.

"Well, I could shower. Or I could not give a shit." Then she remembered her plan for that evening. No way she was getting laid looking like a homeless person. "Shower it is."

30 minutes of scalding water later Layla looked and felt almost 100 percent better. Her hair cooperated, even turning out mildly shiny and smooth. Maybe today would turn out alright. Makeup on. Deodorant, always a good idea. Now the undergarments, lace or cotton, _let's go for gold_, lace in both cases. Black. John liked the black ones, contrasted vividly with her fair skin, apparently.

"OK. Now for something that is tempting but doesn't scream 'momma needs some sugar,' how about that cardigan. Yes cardigan, tights and riding boots. Sultry yet unrevealing. Leaves room for mystery." She was holding her recently shipped cardigan in front of her twisting about in front of the mirror when her phone rang.

"Hola?"

"Oh thank God you're OK." Alex voice sounded desperate on the other end of the line.

"Yeah, of course I'm OK. What's up?"

"I just saw that these people were eaten in some cult thing and you know about the cult things and I thought you might have gone to do research on the cult thing and gotten eaten in the cult thing by freaky cult cannibals!" She barely stopped to breathe and was sobbing by the time she stopped talking.

"No, no love! I'm alright, no freaky cult things on this end." She grimaced as she lied to her best friend. Lies were not her favorite, but they were better for Alex's nerves at the moment, and Layla's time. "Listen, I have to go and run some errands now, but I'll call you sometime this week and we can have a nice chat alright?"

Alex sniffed a couple of times but said nothing.

"Alex, are you nodding?"

"Oh, yeah. Sorry, yeah that's fine. I'll talk with you later. Just. Just text me sometime so I know you're OK."

"Will do, toodles." Layla hung up her phone without waiting for Alex's response, she was inspired to be productive now. She had better get a move on.

"Hello dearie! Been a while since I've seen you. Are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson held open the front door as Layla hauled her bags of groceries up the front steps.

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson. I'm fine, just fine. Just have a bunch of stuff here, really heavy." She was huffing as she squeezed pass the little landlady and made her way to her flat.

"Alright. Rent's due on Tuesday and-"

"Yes, I know. I'll get it in on time this time. Promise." She closed her door and dropped her multiple bags on the floor, sinking onto her knees. She had great gaping indentations from the shopping's handles digging into her forearms. Rubbing them she stood up and sorted everything into its proper place and set about making a quick sandwich. First meal of the day and it was already afternoon. Weary from the exertion of shopping (sad, I know) and unenthused about basically everything Layla flopped back down on her bed and nibbled her tomato and cheese sandwich.

"Is it even worth going up there?" She asked herself.

She woke up two and a half hours later, sandwich wilted on her chest, spoiling her cardigan and smeared across her face. She had actually fallen asleep in the process of eating. She was so sad.

"That's it. It's time to get back some self respect Layla McManis. Now scrub up and get some." She changed into a different sweater and washed her face, reapplying a bit of makeup here and there, especially now that it was early evening. After she combed her hair and brushed her teeth, she paced the circumference of her room seven times before bursting out of her front door and up the stairs. She paused after she tripped and glanced at her phone, she realized she had no idea what time it was, John might not even be in, better yet, Sherlock might be out. 6pm, it was later than she thought. Maybe she slept longer than she had imagined. No matter. Time to get up the stairs.

The door was open, as usual, but the whole flat was unnervingly quiet. Layla peeked her head around the corner and frowned. Sherlock was flopped on the couch, robe all askew, staring at the ceiling. He made no move to acknowledge her presence so Layla plucked up her courage and cleared her throat.

"Yes. I know you're there. I was choosing to ignore you." Just as friendly as usual.

"Good evening, Sherlock. I just came up looking for John. Is he here?"

"The police arrested the members of the neo-Bacchic cult last week."

"Yeah, I know. Saw it in the papers."

"I called Lestrade and gave him the location and time after I realized the following day also exhibited the same astrological portents."

"Good for you, Sherlock. Too bad you didn't get to save those two people's lives."

"No. Not good for me, _Layla_. The case is finished. Closed. Complete. Now there's nothing. Just telly and John prattling and Mrs. Hudson nagging. I'm atrophying."

"Well, I'm sorry, I guess. Just find another case, or a hobby. I think that might be the best choice. You're a bit, erm, high strung as it is. Maybe a break-"

"You're so vacuous. As though anything as inane as a _hobby_ could keep _me_ occupied. Really, Layla, I thought you had more sense than that. Also, there are no cases. Moriarty has been quiet and Lestrade is on holiday. He stopped answering my texts three days ago. Molly won't even let me into Bart's for parts. I think John bribed her, he's so simple sometimes, like you. Wants me to find something else to occupy my time, my brain. Boring. Mycroft's even ignoring me, wouldn't even give me some useless national secret to protect. And now, I can't get a packet of cigarettes or nicotine patches. For some reason we decided to pay off all the shops around here to_ not_ sell them to me. Idiotic. My brain's on hyper drive. Oh look at you," Sherlock finally stopped staring at the ceiling to survey his downstairs neighbor. "hoping to seduce John this evening, are we?" He sneered and flopped back down on the couch.

Layla stared at him for a second and sighed again. Then she noticed the empty glass bottle on the table in front of Sherlock.

"Have _you_ been drinking? And where is John?" Sherlock waved his hand towards then door and swung his legs off the couch sitting up and locking Layla with that icy glare.

"He's out. And yes, I treated myself to the remainder of John's brandy. I figured the alcohol would slow me down. Wrong."

"Out? Where? It's night, I thought he was working day shifts." When Sherlock didn't respond she stepped inside the door and leaned over looking at the bottle, it was a fine brandy "Um, how much did you drink, Sherlock?"

"Oh, don't bother yourself with acting concerned. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I drank just under half a bottle"

"Dear Lord."

"Really unimpressive. I can hardly feel a difference. Just about a half second delay in all my motor functions."

"Sherlock, that's ridiculous. I hope you've at least eaten something today, or this week."

"I had a biscuit yesterday." He was getting bored, Layla could tell he wouldn't tolerate her nagging for much longer. But she couldn't leave without at least getting him to eat something, she wouldn't be able to live with the guilt if he died of alcohol poisoning or something.

"Sherlock, have you got anything in? I'll even bring it over to you, you just need to eat." He made no reply and Layla opened the fridge trying desperately to ignore the various experiments housed within.

"OK, you've a danish, from Mrs. Hudson inevitably. And what looks to be cheese from a month and a half ago. Do you and John _ever_ eat?" When she turned around Sherlock was standing right behind her rummaging through her purse he had somehow maneuvered off her shoulder without her noticing.

"How did you even- what are you doing?"

"Chewing gum. You're always working away at a piece. I want one." Exasperated, Layla let him search through before finding her last piece and popping it into his mouth. He leaned against the counter watching her unwrap the danish and place it on a plate before shoving it in his face.

"Eat it. Now. Please? I couldn't live with myself if you suffered alcohol poisoning and I just stood by. You know, cuz I have morals." He begrudgingly took the plate from her and sniffed the pastry wrinkling his nose.

"Cherry."

"Yes, suck it up and eat it." He rolled his eyes and nibbled at the pastry. For being so threatening at times he was terribly dainty. Layla chuckled at the thought and returned to her original purpose.

"Where is John, Sherlock?"

"Date. Some school teacher. No, that was the one at Christmas. Dental hygienist. Tall, thin, prettier than you, nicer skin."

"Gee, that's just great Sherlock. What'd you do, tell him about the incident?" She stomped her foot, her voice rising involuntarily, the news was bad, the insult was worse.

"No."

"Then what happened?" She was confused and hurt, and could hear her voice on the verge of cracking.

"It was six days, Layla, with no contact from you. He assumed you had lost interest and decided to move on, or so he says. And I may have intimated that you were no longer interested, especially after the events in the cult lair. I'm not interested in hearing him complain about you choosing me over him, so I allowed him to think that you had merely lost interest, not transferred it." Layla felt her blood boiling. Yes, Sherlock was right, but it was not his place to make any of those decisions.

"How dare you, Sherlock Holmes, you assuming, selfish man."

"Please, spare me. What were you going to tell him this evening? Surely you wouldn't insult his intelligence by lying to him. No, that's not in your nature. So, what? Were you going to relate the entire episode with all the sticky details?"

"NO. I was going to tell him that we had an awkward time of it and I had been avoiding your apartment in order to do without seeing you. All of which is true." He scoffed, finished off the danish and crossed his now free arms.

"Don't be ridiculous. An awkward situation is reaching for the same item in a grocery mart or being stuck in an elevator with a vomiting child. What happened that day was… intimate, even if you want to deny it. You were more than acting."

"Oh, come off it. It was a ridiculous situation and it had nothing to do with you, personally. I was in the... moment."

"I don't believe you. You've been throwing yourself at me with petty attempts to catch my attention for days. You're as bad as Molly."

"OK, I'm going to take this opportunity to be offended for myself and this Molly. And then to assure that I was not, in fact, flirting with you. To be quite honest, I hadn't thought twice about you besides to wish you unfortunate incidents."

"Oh, 'hadn't', so by the day of the ritual something had obviously changed."

"No, I meant 'haven't'."

"You're lying, and you're not very good at it, save yourself the trouble and just admit that I'm right. You see, I was really doing John a favor, better than you would have done."

"Yes, OK. I saw you that morning changing. I was, surprised. You're better looking than your personality would permit me seeing before. So I was, erm, I was preoccupied with that later that day." Judging, he was judging her. She could feel it. "Oh, stop looking at me like that," she whined "you know how it is when you haven't had any in a while. Things get a bit-" his face was impassive but she seen that flash a second and a half before, confused, no, unsure. When he saw her searching his face he muttered,

"No, I don't allow base instincts to cloud my higher functions." And he strode back to the sitting room, grabbing his violin and screeching a few notes out with his back to her.

"Sherlock-"

"What?" He was being curt. More so than usual. Something was up. Time to investigate.

"Have you, uh, have you not-" she paused and waited for him to stop abusing his violin, "been with anyone?"

"No. What of it? There's nothing to gain from it so why would I waste my time on such a base and demeaning activity?" He went back to playing a series of angry chords.

"You certainly acted well enough." Layla mumbled under her breath.

"I'm inexperienced, not unobservant. Just because I have not personally engaged in it, does not mean that I have no knowledge of what is involved. Also it's not as though it would've been difficult to deduce."

"I can't believe you've never… don't you wonder about what you're missing out on? And, I mean, come on it's our most basic biological imperative. You'd think at least once…"

"No."

"Yeah, but it's so basic. Everyone knows about it. Well, almost everyone. It's like you're missing out on the key requirement to be a human being, _the_ human experience. It's like you're not a real adult, you haven't undergone your initiation so you can't know about being a proper individual. Experience is knowledge. Ha! You're missing out on knowledge." She'd struck a nerve. He pursed his lips and tossed his violin on the chair as Layla giggled to herself and turned back to the kitchen to collect her purse.

"Since John's not here and probably won't be interested in seeing me anytime soon, I'll just buzz off, go hide in my room downstairs- hello." Sherlock was half an inch away from her, narrowing his eyes down at her. She backed up against the wall to reassert her personal space, he closed the gap. "Erm, is something up Sherlock, I'm just going to go-"

"Instruct me."

"What?"

"You're a professor. I'm lacking knowledge. _Instruct me_." He barely breathed the final sentence. Layla's breath caught. Nope, this couldn't be right, she'd been reading too much porn.

"Um, Sherlock. You've been drinking, I think you might want to rethink this decision. Not exactly watertight this. I'm your best friend's, who I gather to be possibly your only friend, his ex… sex person, friend. You don't want to arouse jealousy or anything. Wasn't that what you were trying to avoid by sending him out with some nurse?"

"Dental hygienist, and yes. But he needn't know about this." He hadn't broken eye contact with her the entire time. His steely blue, or were they grey right then, eyes staring straight through her own.

"Besides, you're drunk, like I said. You'll regret this."

"Probably, but it's just an experiment. And like you said it's a vital experience. I may need it to understand my cases better. I can't afford to have any holes in my knowledge." He moved in even closer, he was so tall she had to tilt her head directly up to look into his eyes.

"This- but. I don't-" Layla was losing her words looking up at that face, those cheekbones, his scrumptious lips moving, saying something she couldn't bother to try and hear. And then his smell, so close and overpowering, and his warm breath on her face, dancing sweetly with cherry, mingling with his own scent, successfully pushing Layla over the edge.

She grabbed hold of the lapel of his extraordinarily posh suit and hoisted herself upwards standing on her toes and brushed her lips against his, smiling as his lips twitched at the brief contact. He cocked his eyebrow,

"So you agree?" his voice rolled through her. That voice, so smooth and proper, with just an edge of gruffness to it now as he stood pressed up against her.

She couldn't form words but just nodded. He certainly could manipulate her sexually for never having _had_ sex. At her assent he stepped back, rescuing his lapel from her eager grasp and motioned towards his room. Layla's face fell, he had ruined the moment with his usual detachment.

"What, so that's it, like I just signed a contract?"

"A verbal one, yes. Were you not paying attention?"

"Huh, no. I don't remember agreeing to anything." He smirked as she grasped at straws trying to remember what was just said, oh no, she was too busy looking at him to listen. And now she was doing it again running her eyes along his fine bone structure. She caught herself licking her lips.

"Layla. Pay attention." She snapped back to reality, he was glowering at her like a silly child who'd forgotten their homework.

"Yeah. Listening." He moved up against her again, pressing her back against the wall. That did it, he had her attention.

"You agreed to cooperate, need I remind you?" Oh, he was getting a bit snippy, kind of aggressive. She liked it. He was talking again, she needed to listen. It was getting harder to do so as he was, well, getting harder.

"-play. There will be none of it. This is merely for data so the penetrative event is all that matters."

"Wait, did I just agree to no foreplay."

"No, you agreed to that last time you were vacant." He was aroused. She could feel it. Actually aroused, she was so surprised it had happened. He had been so _not_ when the two of them were naked flopping against one another, she thought he found her repulsive. Maybe he just had that much self control.

"Oh, I wasn't paying attention or I wouldn't have agreed to that. It's important, you know. And you did tell me to instruct you." He pressed harder up against her, positively smoldering down at her. He was working her, she knew it but it was so tempting.

"We've made a deal, Layla. It's not as though you require it." As ran you slender finger across the middle seam of her tights, already wet through. Oh, he was good. He must have done some reading, or porn. Maybe he watched porn, no, that was unlikely.

"How, how are you… you certainly know your way around for a first timer."

"I am aware of human anatomy." He slipped his hand around to cup her bum.

"Oh, I see what you're doing. You're playing at pre-foreplay. This is to get me to cooperate."

"Good. You're finally observing." He stepped away pointing her towards his room by the hand on her bum. She shook her head and shuffled inside.

"You should know that _that_, that just then, is not conducive to what we're about to do." She said over her shoulder as he followed her into the room a couple steps behind, closing the door behind him. She had a few moments to survey his room while he methodically removed his clothes. Sterile seeming, tidy, nice large bed though. Spartan, hardly any decorations. Very Sherlock.

"Are you just going to stand there gawking?" He sounded bored again, but oh, there he was, very naked, very, very naked. So much more, it seemed, than the time before. It was probably the situation. Or maybe his erection. Yes, it was the erection. And she was staring. When she looked up he looked amused, if that was the right word. Maybe smug was more appropriate.

"Oh, sorry. No, um." She started fumbling with her boots, pulling them off and tossing them aside. She was interrupted by Sherlock impatiently taking over. There it was, the control again. It was hot. He deftly unbuttoned her sweater and threw it behind him before stripping her tights off.

"You _were_ planning on bedding John, matching black lace." Layla blushed, well at least she had put them on for _someone_ to see.

"Yeah, well, there you go."

"No. No, it's good. I wouldn't have thought I would enjoy the sight but they are… arousing. Turn" he stepped back to look at her as Layla awkwardly turned on the spot, literally blushing from scalp to soles.

"Don't be embarrassed. It's a waste of your energy, you have desirable waist to hip proportions which make up for your skin and small breasts. I now understand the fixation with 'American thighs' you have the fullest bum I've ever seen." He looked almost eager, when Layla turned back around to face him. "Bed." He instructed. She scooted back on his bed enjoying the sensation of the satin on the bare skin under her thighs. She began to remove her bra when he shook his head sharply, staring aggressively at her.

"Enjoying the view?" She smiled. She hadn't expected Sherlock to be an ogler.

"Just attempting to ascertain the appeal of the lace. I don't understand my own reactions, it is unsettling." His entire body was twitching intermittently with the effort of remaining controlled. She found herself staring at his penis again. Maybe a quick blow? She slid forward and off the bed kneeling in front of him and quickly taking the head of his cock in her mouth before he could react otherwise. He gasped. It was glorious. But as she moved to take him full in her mouth he pulled her head back by her hair basically snarling at her,

"I said no foreplay." He hauled her up by her upper arms snapping her bra off with one deft flick of his left hand and she let it fall off her shoulders to the floor. He roughly removed her panties and pushed her back onto the bed spreading her legs with his knee and one hand while taking hold of himself with the other.

"Aren't you going to use a-" she gasped as he plunged full into her without hesitation and began working in and out of her at a steady pace giving her no time to adjust to him. She groaned first in pain, he was bigger than John and not nearly as considerate, thrusting in and out without pause as she wriggled around him trying to get into a more pleasurable position. There, her groans became moans as his deep thrusts became more and more delicious, hitting that secret spot and spreading that divine heat outwards from her epicenter. Then, without any warning, he gave one more deep thrust and came full into her. It surprised her, John usually pulled out, but no, Sherlock was breathing deeply and emptying into her. As quick as that he pulled himself out of her before he had even softened and marched to the bathroom shutting the door.

Layla lay on the bed unfulfilled and astonished, full of his seed. Well, might as well finish up. She reached down and fiddled her clit once, twice, three times and a wave of pleasure washed over her, she had been so close before Sherlock so rudely finished. When she came back to, she realized she was moaning, loudly. Her eyes fluttered open to find Sherlock framed by the light of the bathroom watching her finish herself off. She would have been embarrassed if she weren't still swimming in the warm bask of orgasm. Oh and there was also his massive erection throbbing with life again.

She came first that time, he followed almost immediately thereafter groaning as she flexed and undulated around him. It was the first sound he had made she realized. She liked it. He lay on top of her afterwards panting, engulfing her in his body, his sweat and his delicious heat. She loved every second of it, too bad it was an experiment, wouldn't happen again. It was fucking incredible the second time, better than John, and that was saying something. Sherlock was a fast learner.

The blissful peace after their 'experiment' didn't last very long. Layla found herself standing, cold, wet and exhausted in front of Sherlock's room, the door firmly shut in her face. She would have been shocked and offended if it had been anyone's room beside Sherlock's. But this, this was expected. She raised her fist to knock, hoping to ascertain what had just happened. She just didn't understand. The first time made sense, it was sex pure and simple, mechanical, rushed and all about the end result, but the second time, whoah. That was like an exercise in 'how to make Layla moan' and it was a successful one. As she stood there, hand floating in indecision, suddenly it all made sense. She dropped her hand and shuffled out of the apartment and downstairs. Of course the second time was brilliant, he wanted to find out what things worked and how, and that's exactly what he did. It was the compliment to the first session. Now, since Sherlock knew what sex was like on both ends of the 'giving' spectrum he would be done with it. This made Layla sad, inexplicably and inconsolably dejected. She would never have sex like that, with him, again. She should have concentrated more on the sensations and ingrained them in her mind. And with that pitiful and depressing thought she flopped down on her bed to fall asleep. Before she did though she sent a text to Alex. She needed to talk to her about this, but not now. Later. After some mind-clearing sleep.

She rolled over and reached for her cell, her hair fell across her face in the process and she groaned realizing every inch of her was steeped in_ his_ scent. Shoving the flood of images and gutter thoughts from her mind she unlocked her phone and tried to think of an appropriate message to send to her excitable friend. How could she hint that it was important but not so important that she should call immediately.

_Hey love, got some news you'd prob like to hear at some point._ No. Stupid and leading, she'd call straightaway.

_Hey love, checking in like you wanted. Some stuff to tell, I guess. _It undersold her news a bit, but it was better to be chilled out with Alex. She sent it and collapsed.

Three minutes later her phone broke into song. A text.

"UGH. What now?" She grumbled and snatched it off her bedside table.

_Upstairs._ _-SH_ Layla's jaw actually dropped open. He was summoning her, but why? Better find out. She leapt out of her bed excitedly scrambling around her room to collect her cast aside clothing. When she felt she was suitably dressed, not too put together though, she didn't want to look desperate, she walked as slowly and composedly as possible up the stairs. She found Sherlock in his pajamas and robe sitting at the desk at John's laptop, probably reading his emails, Layla thought to herself. He waved towards his bedroom when she opened her mouth to ask what was wrong and said,

"You left something. You most likely want to retrieve it before John returns." He didn't even look up from the screen. Shoulders slumped and feeling disappointed Layla crept back to Sherlock's room. She wanted to get whatever she had left and return to her bed as quickly as possible so she could mope. She felt ridiculous about how excited she had been when she had thought that Sherlock actually wanted her for something, more sex, a conversation, anything. She was such a sad, sad, lonely person.

Layla opened the door and fumbled for the switch, blinking several times when the fluorescent light finally flickered on. Sighing she looked around the room, searching for something she could've left. Not undergarments, she had both of those on her currently. Not actual clothing, wearing that as well. She had her purse downstairs and her shoes. What was it?

"Sherlock? What is it that I left?"

"Earring." An earring. She hadn't even noticed she was missing one, yep the third one from her right ear, a diamond stud. Thank goodness he found it, she would've been furious. She took it from the table and put it back in its hole and rummaged around for the back.

"Sherlock, did you find the back?"

"No." Sighing, she put the earring in her purse's inner pocket and walked back out to the sitting room.

"Thanks, if I had realized I had lost it I would have been thoroughly upset."

"No reason to thank me. You didn't lose it, I removed it halfway through the second session. It was part of my experiment. Just as I had predicted." Layla was confused and slightly offended, what was part of his experiment?

"How do you mean?"

"You responded far more quickly than necessarily, this exposed your eagerness. You also got dressed again instead of coming up in a dressing gown, so either you were concerned about running into John when you returned and being forced to explain your disheveled state, possibly eliciting a very uncomfortable situation, or you wanted to impress me. My guess is the latter considering the fact that you didn't bother buttoning your sweater all the way up, leaving the edge of your bra exposed. You are just as easily forced into emotional investment by what you knew to be casual and impersonal intercourse as I expected. You're emotionally uncontrolled and it exposes you to manipulation. Once again, I have proved that emotional attachments are detrimental weaknesses." He looked up from the computer screen at this point, probably to gauge Layla's reaction, and sniffed. "Also, you reek of sex, as does my room. It will need to be aired out. As the instructor in these matters do you have a viable solution for this, so I don't have to explain the odor to John or shall I just devise a remedy while you gape vapidly at me?"

"You were performing an experiment? Do you mean to say you thought this lovely scheme up while we were having sex? Could you not stop thinking and just enjoy yourself?"

"Yes. I suppose I'll figure something out, perhaps the steam from a hot shower. Fine, I'm finished with you, you may leave." Unbelievable, he actually dismissed her, as though she were student held back after class for a scolding. Who did he think he was? Layla exhaled forcefully and stomped off down the stairs, sidling past a very drunk John as he stumbled in the front door.

"'Ello love. Haven't seen you lately. Been busy, then?" He leaned heavily against the wall in front of her hallway.

"Yes, John. Sorry, haven't been around. I hope you enjoyed your date. I'll be seeing you later." She bobbed her head and tried to escape into her room before John could reply.

"So Sherlock told ya then. Bastard can't keep his mouth shut. Noffin 'gainst you, just thought you'd moved on." He had grabbed her wrist and was giving her what she figured were his best puppy dog eyes. Lord, he was adorable when drunk. Layla patted his hand and extricated herself.

"No worries, John. No feelings hurt here, we weren't even dating. Night." She didn't give him time to respond, closing the door and bolting it. She didn't worry over undressing and threw herself down on her bed regretting deeply the last five hours.

"Probably would've been best to have just stay in bed all day. I won't make that mistake again." She curled into a tight fetal position and pulled her blankets up over her head.


	5. The Arrangement

Wednesday

Her alarm came too soon, Layla flailed around pointlessly a couple of times and knocked the alarm clock off the table before her cloudy brain registered that it was her phone ringing.

"Hello" she croaked without looking at the screen.

"Oh, sorry sweet. Did I wake you up?" Alex sounded sickeningly happy.

"Errm. Yea. What time is it?" Her eyes weren't even open, she couldn't be bothered to look at the clock on the floor. A long pause followed probably filled by Alex's counting.

"Oh crap. There, it's 4:30 in the morning. Sorry, I didn't think about the time."

"Uhh, too early. What's wrong?"

"Nothing is _wrong_. I just got your message and a call from Henry suggesting that I would really enjoy a nice chat with you. Something special going on?" _Damn Henry and his fucking gossiping. And his fucking telepathy. How did he always know?_

"Yes. I slept with both the upstairs neighbors. That is all."

"WHAT? Layla! You skank! You slept with _both _of them, even the one that you were so 'repulsed' by?" Layla could practically hear the sarcastic quotes around 'repulsed' and realized she wasn't going to get much sleep tonight.

"Yes. Like I said both of them. Best sex of my life. Both of them, well Sherlock was better but before him John was the best ever. You should try a British guy, they actually know what all the parts are for, or maybe they just bother more with paying attention to all the parts." She hoped that extreme bluntness would allow her to avoid a long interrogation.

"OOOOOO, like how do you mean? Give me all the juicy details."

"Yes, very juicy. Lots of details. You can use your imagination. Just think of what you and Chris were like and then multiply that by three in every regard."

"You mean… they are three times the size?"

"No. You perve. They were three times better."

"Like multiple orgasms better?"

"Yes. And longer. And stronger. And better. Just better."

"Oh god. Can I borrow them?"

"Alex, they aren't mine to lend, but sure why don't you fly on over here and seduce my overly considerate neighbor and his heartless roommate who I'm pretty sure has Aspersers."

"Then you should be right at home, you like the damaged ones."

"Bah! That's it, listen, I fucked Sherlock like literally 4 hours ago, twice, and it was a huge mistake. I don't really want to talk about it right now, I want to go to sleep and forget it ever happened so I can wake up tomorrow and pretend I'm not infatuated with him and his gorgeous freaking body. I slept with John like ten times and thought that was going somewhere good until I lost control of my brain and decided to start drooling over Sherlock and all his perfect leanness and blew John off for about a week. He's moved on and even went on a date tonight, totally over me. Too bad too, he is a fantastic human being with a ridiculously talented tongue. Now I'm stuck fantasizing about his heartless best friend who couldn't give less of a shit about me and slept with me to prove a hypothesis, like I'm not kidding, it was an experiment. A brilliant, unforgettable, standard-shattering experiment. And I can still smell him on me right now. So there, that is my news and Henry can go shove it up is ass!" She was panting with frustration as she listened for Alex's response, when it finally came it was in a very small voice.

"Are you in love with him?"

"WHO? John? No."

"No. Sherlock."

"No, of course not. How could I be? Why?"

"Well, you basically had a relationship with John and when you described it being over that took all of one sentence, but your single encounter with Sherlock earned a full on rant, so… I just thought maybe the situation with him was more upsetting because you had, you know, feelings for him."

"No. I would say I hate him, but that's a bit immature. I am disgusted by his complete disregard for my or anyone else's feelings and my inability to stop thinking about him naked."

"So you're just sexually attracted to him?"

"Right."

"You don't feel some other attachment because he shares a social impediment with you?"

"NO."

"OK, OK. Easy there, I didn't mean to touch a nerve."

"It's fine. I'm going to sleep. Bye."

"Fine, you know I'm here if you need me."

"Yeah. Night" Layla hung up, exhausted and upset. She rolled over and tried to clear her mind. Blank walls. Sherlock's walls are practically blank. Sheep hopping over fences. Sherlock would find that a ridiculous image in no way connected to sleeping. In fact, Layla felt that way too. Running water. That just made her need to use to toilet. She got up and went to the bathroom, flipping the switch and catching sight of herself in the mirror. She looked terrible. Her makeup was running and her hair was a clusterfuck again. She took the opportunity to change out of her semen soaked panties and threw them in the bathtub planning on washing them in the morning.

"Christ." she gasped as she remembered she had let him cum inside her twice. It wasn't like she was on the pill or anything. "Not good." she signed and sat down to relieve herself counting backwards on her fingers to the last time had menstruated.

"Fuck me and all my life. 16 days." She sighed deciding to go to the pharmacist and get something in the morning. She was pretty sure she wasn't in the danger zone but it was too close for comfort. She shuffled back into her bed room casting aside pieces of clothing as she went. She preferred sleeping naked anyways.

"Better." She drifted to sleep immediately.

That wasn't right. She fell asleep with the shades drawn and the lights off. She was sure of it, so why was there light stabbing her in the eyes? She grumbled as she pulled the blankets over her head and wiggled back into the warm cocoon of her bed.

"Fucking sunlight." The she heard something. What was it, dripping? No, too close to be her sink in the kitchen or bathroom. Tapping, it was tapping. A steady tapping.

Her eyes snapped open to find Sherlock sitting in her desk chair, thrumming the arm rests with his fingers.

"You talk in your sleep." Layla protectively pulled the blankets up around her and sat up, opening and shutting her mouth in surprise.

"What? What are you- why are you here" she glanced down at her alarm clock on the floor, it read 6:14 "it's so early? And my room was locked. I bolted it."

"Locks aren't real security. I'm here because I couldn't sleep and I decided I needed to determine the reason."

"Ugh, Sherlock, I'm not going to participate in any more of your experiments, so if you need to determine the level of exhaustion caused by emotional defeat go measure someone else." She laid back down and rolled over.

"No, I haven't slept because I couldn't stop thinking about having sex. With you in particular, of course you are my only exposure to it, so I suppose I could release this tension elsewhere. But your taste and scent have infected my brain and I require the antidote. You were sleeping soundly despite your emotional wounding. Why?"

"Not now, Sherlock. I was sleeping because I'm fucking exhausted. Leave me alone to wallow in my regrets."

"You regret it?" He replied immediately.

"Yes. You damaged my pride and ruined my expectations for sex for the rest of time. That was…" she paused thinking about what a huge mistake telling Sherlock how good he was would be "that was the best sex I've had and I know I'll never have it again and that's disappointing, but I can accept it and move on, and _sleep_." There was silence for a few minutes after that and Layla thought Sherlock might have left, she left her eyes closed and started drifting off to sleep.

"I have an obsessive personality. By introducing me to the distraction of sex you've opened a new gateway for diverting my mind. I tried the self-serving alternative. It isn't adequate." Layla sat up and stared at Sherlock trying to register what he had just blurted out.

"Did you just admit to masturbating after telling me that I'm to blame for you getting addicted to sex? Are you on drugs?"

"Yes, in a manner, I did but you're choosing to ignore the fact that I just offered to solve your problem as well. Something about 'the best sex' you've had. And no, I'm not using drugs. That's part of my problem," he murmured the last part off-handedly.

"OK, let me get this straight. You want me to provide you with recreational sex every time you're bored and itching for a cigarette?"

"Precisely."

"And you don't care what this does to my emotional well-being."

"I've made it perfectly clear that this exercise is purely for the mutual benefit of releasing tension, it is not a relationship and thus without emotional investment."

"So you think we can just have casual sex without getting attached?"

"Yes." Layla paused and thought about this contract Sherlock was proposing. Sure it was selfish and probably heading straight for disaster, but it was damn tempting.

"Fine." She rolled over and waved her hand at her kitchen "There's a spare key in the third drawer. Take it. You can use it to initiate sexual congress whenever the whim takes you." She couldn't believe the words were coming out of her mouth, but if she was going to be anyone's sex toy she was glad she was Sherlock's. Huh, she was 'Sherlock's'. Not even close.

"I'm here for more than a simple negotiation of terms, Layla. I thought you would have realized that. I did say I couldn't sleep." Oh no. He wanted it now. But she was filthy and sore and so, so tired.

"Please not now. I'm so disgusting and tired and honestly you banged the crap out of me earlier, I ache everywhere." He had somehow silently stood from the chair and moved onto her bed. She jumped when she felt his weight near her feet.

"I can be gentle, you know. The first time was… over-stimulating. I needn't perform like that this time. What I really wanted was to have the full experience." He ran his hand up her leg, even over the blankets it was exhilarating, and paused on her hip bone. "You haven't any clothing on. How convenient." He yanked the bed clothes out of her grasp exposing her bare body to the light. In the stark brightness Layla noticed the bruising for the first time, all across her hip bones and even on the inside of her thigh. He had fucked her_ hard_ earlier. She saw even Sherlock's eyes widen as he noticed the bruises. He ran the back of his hand over the angry purple patches. It was cold like ice and Layla winced. He looked up and stared into her eyes and Layla got the feeling he was actually looking at her for once. Suddenly and so gently he pulled her bottom towards him so that she was laying flat on her back. Sherlock carefully spread her legs apart and inspected her sex. Then he tenderly ran a single finger over her lips, earning a gasp, before slowly parting them and tracing her folds with the very tip of his index finger. The cold was invigorating and his touch was so light Layla whimpered softly. Just as she was beginning to melt into submission the cool touch retreated and Layla pouted for a second before the finger was replaced by a warmer, moister appendage. She looked down to find Sherlock's curls wedged between her legs and he nuzzled into her warmth. Then his nose brushed her clit and she moaned. Sufficiently encouraged, Sherlock tongued her more vigorously now, occasionally nuzzling into her sensitive mound and was always rewarded with a gasp or a moan. Then he moved his tongue up, flicking her clit a few times with it before slowly working a single long slim finger inside of her. He curled it up just once and Layla bucked in response as he stroked her deepest pleasure point. Heat burgeoned from her center and soon she was lurching up against his tongue and additional fingers. As she was on the precipice of release Sherlock gently took her clit in his teeth and simultaneously strummed her inner spot, sending her over the edge. She basked in the glow of a painless orgasm (a first with Sherlock) and ran her fingers through his hair, something she had wanted to do for a while now. It was so think and soft. She pressed her nails into his scalp and he hummed against her in pleasure, sending shivers of excitement up her spine.

"Have I excelled in this as well?" He rumbled, still nuzzled between her thighs. That voice, he needed to stop using it when he was so close to her sex, she might start getting wet _every_ time he spoke.

"Undoubtedly." She continued stroking his hair but was abruptly cut off as Sherlock shrugged away from her touch. _Too intimate, probably_ Layla thought to herself. Sherlock stood taking a handkerchief from inside his pocket and wiped his face before clearing his throat, he almost seemed awkward as he looked down at Layla lying on the bed, eyes half shut, licking her lips. When he didn't immediately launch into some lecture or complaint Layla became wary.

"Sherlock? What is it?" He stuffed is hands in his pockets and lifted his chin, looking towards the other side of the room, clearly avoiding eye contact.

"I would find a reciprocal exercise as enlightening, if not more." It was almost a request, or as close to one as Sherlock would dare to tread. Layla smiled and sat up, slipping off the bed and padding over to where Sherlock stood still fully clothed, in stark contrast to her nudity.

"Seated, recumbent or standing?" She pressed her body completely against his, enjoying the feeling of the expensive material against her bare skin. Since Sherlock hesitated for a fraction longer than Layla felt like waiting, she slid down onto her knees right there, running her hands down his body. She reached his hemline and fiddled with his belt, having trouble with it again. No, that wasn't right, she had trouble with _John's_ belt before. Bad timing, wrong thoughts, she needed to focus. Successfully unlatching his belt without any noticeable problems Layla unfastened his trousers and let them drop to the floor. He wasn't hard. Disappointing, how could he have ate her out without any personal repercussions? He was such a robot sometimes. She ran a fingernail up the inside of his left thigh dipping under his pants, hoping to encourage his arousal. It worked. She removed her finger, began to stroke him through the soft fabric and moved her hand back to cup his balls. This finally triggered an audible response, and Sherlock breathed in sharply through his nose. Layla looked up and made eye contact smiling when she noticed how dilated his pupils were. That was when she decided to draw this out, tease him maybe. She stood up and walked back to the bed leaving Sherlock standing half clothed and gawking after her.

"What are you doing?" He sounded genuinely confused for once.

"I'm instructing and I've decided this lesson is better taught seated." She patted the bed beside her. Sherlock stepped out of the trousers bunched around his feet walked back to the bed glaring at Layla, she could tell he didn't enjoy being left exposed and the one without the control. He sat on the bed and lifted an eyebrow.

"I've sat down, what will you have me do next?" He was playing along, good enough for her.

"Oh, nothing, just sit back, relax and enjoy the experience." She worked his pants down and off and ran her hands back up to his inner thighs and dug her nails in slightly. He twitched, all of him, she sank them in harder, same response. _Hmm, likes a bit of roughness_ Layla was sure she could use this to her benefit some other time and catalogue it for later. Then she scooted closer breathing lightly on his head and readjusting her hands to either side of his hips with her thumbs tucked in the crook next to his hip bone.

"First lesson." She whispered over his cock before licking its tip and taking the head in her mouth, running her tongue up and over it, relishing the heat and the throb of Sherlock's involuntary response. She hummed around him and then slowly, painstakingly slowly, eased the rest of him into her mouth, relaxing her tongue and eventually her throat. When he was fully sheathed in her mouth she hummed again and began moving her tongue back and forth on the underside of his shaft. The response was exciting, he bucked into her ever so slightly and let a small groan escape his lips. Layla could feel herself grow wet again, she loved a vocal man. Then she made to swallow, once again eliciting a moan louder this time before beginning to work him in and out of her mouth, bringing him out only to the edge of her hard palate and allowing her teeth to slightly graze his shaft. When she felt him lurching towards her on the intake she stopped taking him in fully and locked her lips around his head again, licking in light circles and then pulled back and blew cool air over it, he gasped and plunged his hands into her hair pushing her back towards engulfing him again. She resisted ticking his head with her tongue and sneaking her hands down to the inside of his thighs she ran back one finger over his sack. He bucked up again almost grunting this time, Layla smiled around his cock and finally indulged him, swallowing him down the base and leaning back again quickly, in and out and in and out until he was thrusting in time with her and grunting. Layla found herself humming her moans along with him and snuck a hand down to her own erect nub flicking and stroking it in time with his thrusts. She looked up to see Sherlock watching her, nostrils slightly flared and lips parted as he panted with each shove. She was even more aroused at the thought of him watching her and she moaned again, more loudly and came, so quickly, as she continued to work up and down his shaft, accidently swallowing when he pressed against the back of her soft palate. He groaned loudly and gave one final thrust, coming without any other warning. Layla instinctively swallowed and regretted it until she heard Sherlock let out another surprised "oh" at the sensation before collapsing back onto the bed, panting as though he's just run a mile.

Layla grinned as she surveyed her work, this was the most relaxed she'd seen Sherlock. Plus he was quiet, no witty comeback or scathing remark.

"Feeling more knowledgeable?" She sat down next to him and then laid her body down parallel to his, being careful not to touch him. He turned his head and stared at her face, assessing her expression.

"Indeed, your enjoyment was unexpected." Layla frowned a bit and then smiled innocently.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock glared at her and narrowed his eyes.

"You know precisely what I am referring to, you were self-stimulating. I even felt you spasm with orgasm." He couldn't _deduce_ that she had been joking, no social skills.

"Yes, yes I did. And it isn't unusual Sherlock. In fact many people are aroused by servicing other; some even masturbate meanwhile, like I did. I think you kind of enjoyed watching it, didn't you?" She grinned and hopped off the bed ducking into the bathroom before Sherlock could yell at her or anything else.

She tidied up and brushed her teeth before walking to the kitchen to make some breakfast, she might as well get an earlier start since it was clear she wouldn't be sleeping any more that morning. Sherlock was re-dressed and composed again when she saw came out. He watched her carefully as she fried an egg and made toast, setting the kettle on, she would need the caffeine after so little sleep.

"Want anything?" She asked over her shoulder, even though she already knew that answer.

"No. Thank you. You know this isn't an arrangement that would require outside interaction. No breakfast or post coital chats or _cuddling_." He curled his lip in disgust as though his final word left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Yeah. I figured. Thought I'd be polite and offer though." She turned back to her egg, flipping it before adding "If you don't require anything else, you can see yourself out." She kept her back turned as she heard the door snap shut so that he couldn't see her face. She was sad again, the sex was good but this arrangement wasn't going to be good for her emotionally. Layla needed the attention and the appreciation every once and a while and she certainly didn't get those from Sherlock, nor would she. Hell, he never even kissed her. And she really wanted to kiss him and his luscious lips. Feel what that quick tongue could do elsewhere, discover how he tasted. She could have, last night, when she had him by the lapel. Stupidly she'd let that opportunity escape her. She shook her head to clear her mind as she slid her egg onto the toast on her plate and poured herself a cup of tea. She missed John, John would've sat and had breakfast with her, cuddled with her after they were both sated, humored her with pillow talk. Yes, she preferred that, even if the sex itself wasn't as good. She would have to tell Sherlock later that this couldn't go on. But for now she needed a shower, desperately, and to do something else but she couldn't remember what.


	6. The Complication

Later that morning Layla finally dragged herself to work, looking simply atrocious, she couldn't be bothered with looking half way decent when all the synapses firing in her brain were sending one signal: think of something besides Sherlock Holmes. Of course, spending all that energy on that single thought made it fairly difficult for her to think of that something that did not involve Sherlock. She arrived at the museum without realizing how she arrived and she hunkered down in her study closet, turned on all her lamps and set to work. But instead of actually staring through her scopes at the figures, recording the language in her own hand and then translating it from her key she made a list of ways she could 'break up' with Sherlock. She could make herself so repulsive to him until he left her be, that would be the easiest but would take the longest. She could use a more upfront approach, tell him that she wasn't interested in it anymore and then stick to her guns until he stopped bothering her, quick but painful. She could tell John what was going on, that would put it outside her powers; John would create some kind of barrier between them, either by bitching or physically impeding. However, involving John would possibly hurt John and Layla didn't want to hurt him, he was a good man. Telling John was so tempting though. He would back her up on her decision, probably make her some tea, be her friend. She needed a friend. She typed up a text to John: _When you're free I'd like to pop up and ask a favor of you, if you don't mind. Layla_ She sent it without thinking it over or any hesitation whatsoever. She felt better after reaching out and fell back into her careful work routine. A couple minutes later she was reminded of the whole incident by John's response _That's great, at Baker St, give me five minutes warning and I'll put on the kettle._ Layla immediately regretted bringing John into this nonsense after reading his easy response. He was still so carefree and happy, she didn't want to ruin it. _Thanks, I'll let you know. May be late._ She sent the ambiguous text and went back to work, focusing on a particularly difficult section.

It was after sunset when Layla finally climbed out of her closet. She was hungry and her eyes were aching from the work. She thought she would call in some take out and then sit down for a long bath with some music on, relax and just not worry about anything for the evening. She had earned at least that after such a productive day. She got back to Baker St. in a haze, food was already called in, would be delivered in ten minutes or so, but she felt like she was forgetting something. While searching her mind for whatever it was she had misplaced, she shuffled into her apartment and tossed her bag on her desk. The door buzzed almost immediately, or at least it felt that way, she may have been sitting on her bed staring at the floor for ten minutes or so without realizing. She paid the courier and sat down to some fried rice. After taking her fill she put the left overs in the fridge and ran her tub, turning her music on, Vivaldi today. She tossed her clothes in her laundry bin and stretched her neck and shoulders before sinking into the warm bath water. As she sat, feeling all her muscles melt and release their tension her mind turned back on, clicking through her checklist for the day. She realized she never got back to John and felt bad about blowing him off but decided to let it be, she would enjoy her bath and then watch some television and wait to call it off with Sherlock until he confronted her. _That's not a good decision._ Her mind was such a square sometimes, ruining her nice quiet leisure time with good sense.

When her bath water cooled Layla toweled off and slipped into her least flattering pajamas and settled into her bed. She flipped on the TV set and watched a rerun of _Doctor Who_. She fell asleep before the end, unusual for her _Who_ viewings, it was easily her favorite show and woke up to a powered down television set. She reached over to her bedside table to find her phone, she was really awake at this point and thought a short chat with Alex would exhaust her enough to go back to sleep. After groping about in the dark for a few seconds Layla realized she had left her phone on her desk.

She slipped out of her bed and shivered violently as her bare feet hit the cold floor. _I'll have to get some house shoes soon if they don't arrive in the next shipment._ She shook her head in the dark at her lack of planning about the shipping arrangements and carefully shuffled her way across the room to her desk. Then she tripped. She stumbled over something that felt suspiciously like a shoe and collided violently with her desk sending what sounded like tableware clattering across her desk and soaking her with some kind of tepid liquid. She fumbled for her desk lamp until finally illuminating her small apartment. She turned violently towards the foreign source of her gracelessness. He was staring at her eyebrows raised, silently taunting her.

"What are you doing sitting at my desk in the dark?"  
>"Oh, I was taking advantage of the silence. John is feeling incredibly chatty this evening. Why is it you didn't tell John about our arrangement this evening? Did you decide not to call it off? Ah, no, of course not. You chose to wait until I approached you, less people involved, more aggression afforded, much more appealing to someone with your <em>tendencies<em>." He nodded his head, pleased with his conclusion and gestured towards the tea tray, now completely upended. "Tea? John made it and I stole it. Since you were planning on having some with John before you changed your mind I thought I would just bring it down to you and save you the trouble." Sarcasm, well some sarcasm, who knew about the rest of Sherlock's undertones most of the time. He also clearly didn't care that she had spilt all of the no longer appealing tea, or maybe he hadn't noticed. Sometimes he fell into those bouts of detached silence, just staring. Thinking rather. That must have been what he had been doing sitting here in the dark.

"How long have you been sitting there? Did you turn of my set?" He had fallen back into his hypnotic silence, leaning forward, chin on pressed together palms.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, I'm speaking to you."  
>"Oh, yes. I've been here for approximately three hours. When I observed that you were in REM sleep I switched it off. It was distracting me." Layla tidied up while Sherlock inspected her. "You really are set on nullifying our contract. I suggest that you rethink that decision."<p>

Layla rolled her eyes and shook her head. She knew what he was doing, trying to incite her into asking how he figured it out. He did enjoy showing off. She wouldn't give him the pleasure, any pleasure. She finished righting the cups and the kettle and removed the tray to her kitchen in order to completely wipe up the mess.

"I'm not going to rethink anything, Sherlock. But since you brought it up, yes, I am nipping this in the bud. Nothing good can come of this, I'll get hurt and you'll become incurably addicted. Lose- lose situation, you're a clever man, this should seem perfectly rational to you." Sherlock snorted and rose from his seat, straightening out his suit and looking down at Layla.

"You're not though. This nipping may seem 'rational' as you say but you don't seem to be following your own rational sensibilities." He paused for a moment waiting for Layla's response. She tilted her head to the side and sighed deeply, her apparent lack of interest was not going to keep Sherlock from showing off. He continued, "You are actively trying to appear disinterested with your unflattering sleeping attire and lack of cosmetics since you knew that if I wanted I could enter your apartment and see you in this state, setting in motion your plan to deter me without even speaking. However, your undergarments tell a different story. Lace, and dark blue, not something a woman wears to bed for comfort. Even more telling was your grooming ritual this evening. You played Vivaldi, whom I have been playing for the past week as well as using sandalwood imbued bath salts, unconsciously surrounding yourself with a scent that you associate with my own. If I'm not mistaken, your usual scent is not herbal but merely a simple cotton scent, clean and simple like the rest of the scents you use when you must, you prefer unscented applications. Finally, you shaved your legs this evening. You shaved your legs for our first interaction, or rather for your seduction of John, but neglected to do so for our cult escapade, thus you do not do so with every bath but for _special _occasions." A quick smile flashed across his lips as Layla glared up at him, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. He was right, Layla realized he was right. That's why she kept putting it off, but she still felt it was a bad idea. She conceded defeat, letting her face and shoulders relax as she stepped away from him.

"Yes. OK, that's right. Good for you. Now why are you here? You would've woke me up if you came down for _that_, so what is it?"

"Oh, I have a favor to ask of you."  
>Layla wrinkled her brow, confused. "What could you possibly need from me?"<br>"Don't be so modest. You're incredibly well versed in a bevy of topics." Oh, a compliment, how quaint. He must really want it, or he was feeling generous after his successful display of brain power.

"OK cut the shit. What do you want?"

"I'm in the process of teaching myself to read Ancient Greek. I already know the modern language and I learnt Latin in primary but I figured since I have a specialist available to me I might as well take advantage of your skill. The fluency of one such as yourself will speed my learning. Will you act as my supervisor?" Layla was surprised, and flattered. She must have looked it. "Please." The formal politeness threw her.

"Yes, sure. Yeah of course, I'd love to. When do you want to start?"  
>"I've already begun. I just wanted to be certain you wouldn't mind my dropping in for a question or a check in my composition."<p>

Layla was suddenly exhausted, she waved her hand in agreement and flopped onto her bed.

"Sounds great. We'll treat it in the same way as our other arrangement. You have the key, just let yourself in." She yawned lazily and pulled the covers up to her chin, her eyelids feeling like lead. "Goodnight, Sherlock." She let her eyes close and waited for the light to go out and the door to close. Neither happened. She laboriously opened her right eye peeking back over towards her desk.

And there he was, stripped down to his skin, folding his trousers over the back of her office chair.

"You surely don't believe I waited three hours just to ask you a question I could have easily communicated via a text? I plan on further solidifying the state of our agreement." He flipped the covers off her and methodically removed her frumpy pajamas sitting back to survey his work when Layla lay only in her panties. She put up neither any resistance nor assistance. He looked cautiously at her.

"Is this completely unappealing to you or are you just trying to spite me?"

"No, neither really. I'm just so tired I don't feel like moving, at all. If you were _really observing_ however you would discover that I'm not adverse to your advances." She lazily looked down at her undergarment freshly spoilt with warmth. No matter how tired she was, a naked Sherlock did things to her. He smiled.

"Why don't you allow me to take care of it myself." He peeled her panties off and made to duck between her thighs when Layla stopped him,

"No. No foreplay. Too tired. Just fuck me already." Her impatience was due to mixture of exhaustion and curiously intense arousal. Sherlock took no time in following her instructions and mounted her within seconds. He, however, hesitated before penetrating her, perhaps regretting the bruising he inflicted the previous night, and looked straight into her eyes. Layla was astonished, she thought she could see emotion in those eyes, what was it concern, sadness. It was like the ice had melted just a bit. In that moment she needed him, desperately and she reached up and pulled him into her by his lovely well-shaped backside. He sighed with a heavy shudder but stayed still, throbbing inside of her but not yet ramming home. When Layla couldn't take the waiting any more she began to lurch up against him, moaning ferally as Sherlock stared down at her, surprised and clearly aroused by her eagerness.

Before she comprehended what was happening Layla was on top of Sherlock, straddling him as she bounced. He must have flipped her over, so much for him doing all the work. No matter, Layla was riding him like her life depended on it, head thrown back, hands splayed across his chest, nails pressing into his ivory skin just enough to leave a mark. His hands were on her hips guiding her up and down, pressing against her hip bone with just the right amount of pressure.

When Layla came she felt like she was going to pass out, or float off Sherlock and rest against the ceiling. Her slowing pace did nothing to abate Sherlock's avid thrusting, he continued lifting her bottom with his hands while staring at her with an intensity that should have set her aflame. She groaned as his movements became more persistent, erratic, and his left thumb strayed towards her clit. He hovered over it for a fraction of a second before beginning to stroke her in time with his movements. Layla responded lurching into his hand and vocalizing, "yes, yes YES" her second orgasm triggering his first and she laid down on top of him, panting against his chest as he too recovered from their violent exertions. Layla ruined the moment shortly thereafter when, in the fog of the afterglow, she stretched up to kiss him, an intimate gesture she was used to enjoying with John and her past boyfriends but one that Sherlock did not welcome. Instead, he smoothly flipped her off him and slid to the floor. Layla sighed and pulled the covers up around her. She wasn't surprised by his response. She should've known better. She fell asleep before Sherlock was fully dressed, he undoubtedly let himself out and locked her in with his key. Layla slept soundly the whole night through fully satisfied with her decision to let Sherlock convince her to have empty sex with him. It had turned out just fine. Right?

She woke up the next morning feeling calm and sated, but with just the tiniest niggling thought in the back of her head, like she was still forgetting something. She lay in her bed stretching languorously and planning out the schedule for her day, that was when it clicked. The morning-after pill. She hadn't gotten a morning after pill, how effective would it be the morning after the morning after? Panic, this was panic. She shot out of her bed pulling any clothes that were available on and dashing about her apartment gathering keys and coat and purse.

"Hello, dear! All a rush this morning aren't we?" Layla shoved past Mrs. Hudson and shouted back at her as she yanked open the street door.

"Morning! In a hurry." She stumbled down the steps and shot down the street ignoring the puzzled looks of passersby. She rounded the last corner on the fly and stumbled into a woman, apologizing profusely she edged around her and sprinted the last few yards to the pharmacist.

She stood in line as patiently as possible, keeping her coat pulled tight around her, despite the heat inside the shop, and fiddling with her hair. The pharmacist was not exactly in a good mood when Layla finally reached the counter and was not welcoming of her string of questions.

"Hi, I need an emergency contraceptive."

"Do you have a preference?"  
>"Um, no, just whichever one works best. Is there one that works more than 24 hours later?"<p>

"Statistically, they are all effective up to 72 hours afterwards, with some deviation. The morning after is literally the best time."

"So, it should work now?" She asked, really to herself. And the pharmacist rolled his eyes.

"I wouldn't know but with these things there is never a true guarantee."

Layla nodded and paid the rather exorbitant price and dashed back to her apartment, trying to conceal the pharmacist sack in her coat.

She successfully snuck back into Baker St without encountering a snooping Mrs. Hudson and quietly let herself into back into her flat which was fully lit and clearly occupied. Her shoulders sank and she stood quietly gathering herself before swiveling around and composedly staring down Sherlock. He was seated in her desk chair again, closely surveying her.

"Chemist." It wasn't a question, it was an assertion of fact. An assertion fraught with threatening implications.

"I'm sure you can understand. Last thing I need is another consequence from our escapades hanging over my head. So I'm resolving this issue." She stepped around him and laid the bag on the desk before moving into the kitchen to prepare a small meal to take with the medication. When she turned back around with her toast she found Sherlock holding the small pill in his palm standing behind her.

"I took the liberty of opening the packaging. A good choice." She pursed her lips and took the pill from his palm swallowing it with a gulp of apple juice and a bit of toast. "I'll dispose of the evidence. The last thing we need is Mrs. Hudson finding it in your rubbish and becoming inquisitive." Sherlock gathered up the sack and the packaging and marched out of the room without another word.

Layla shook her head and sank into her desk chair, skimming her open emails. He had been snooping, nothing new. But why had he been there in the first place? She shoved the thought away, she would never understand Sherlock's motivations, and munched the rest of her toast. She felt much better now. That little poking bother had been sorted and she could move on to other things. Like calling Alex. Yes Alex deserved a ring and some juicy details.

"You know, the fact that they finally fall in love is all well and good, but the melancholy of the loss is really what makes this movie great. I've never particularly enjoyed the empty satisfaction of the romantic happy ending, this way there is the both ends on the spectrum of passion. You rise and fall, very cathartic."

Sherlock found Layla the following afternoon, near the end of _The Painted Veil_.

"That's why I love this movie especially. That and Edward Norton's British accent. Endlessly entertaining. I find his voice so… mesmerizing with the accent. Then again, I've always been charmed by it. Weakness of an American, the exotic is always preferable. However, for me it's really only British. I don't go all weak in the knees for any of the accents from the continent. So it must also be the properness, the authority." She finally glanced up at Sherlock her smiling wickedly. "And might I say, your voice, your voice is entrancing." She focused back on the screen until the credits begun to run. Sherlock stayed posed in the door way, watching her watch the television. She didn't cry, not like she normally did. For some reason, this whole situation with Sherlock had left her feeling somewhat detached about the whole matter of romance. Sure, she was still eager to have a well-founded relationship built on love and trust, blah, blah, but right now? Right now she was content with just sex. No emotional baggage. No children. There was a time that seeing the child on screen at the conclusion of the film had wrung her heart until it shattered, because she wanted one. Not today, not right now. Kids were not on her Christmas list, she hardly needed any _more_ responsibility.

"OK, it's over. You want sex or Greek?" She turned to look directly at Sherlock, chin on her folded hands, elbows on her bent knees. He had his hands in his pockets and, for once, he didn't meet her eyes.

"You know," he began in a small voice, "your emotions, more specifically your emotions for me, were never something I found to be condemnable. People, normal people, have emotions, exhibit them freely. I, however, cannot afford to have them or I would lose objectivity. My lack of practice experiencing them myself caused my apparent disdain for your feelings. I apologize for my insensitivity, I cannot find fault with you in that regard." He paused gathering his thoughts. Fiddling with his cell phone. "I heard you yesterday, while you were speaking about me on your phone. I didn't hate you. To begin with, I was actually intrigued by you, your research, otherwise I wouldn't have helped you."

Layla swung her legs off her bed and padded over to Sherlock. She remembered what she had told Alex last night, how it would could have hurt what feelings Sherlock had:

"So how do you feel about this, if you really aren't going to break it off?" Alex had been nearly ecstatic, she was so intrigued by the idea of a non-conventional set up such as this

"Well, it's probably a terrible idea dressed in great trappings. Oh well."

"What do you mean? Are you not happy that your banging this gorgeous, simply genius man?"  
>"Oh, yeah all that is great. It is just that he has no emotions, no feelings for me and no capacity to acquire them. In fact, I'm pretty sure he hates me as a person, or he did at one point, and he just deals with my personality now because it is attached to my Greek knowledge and my body."<br>"Oh, now, I doubt that. Don't undersell yourself, you're a catch!"

"You're sweet, John used to tell me that. Sherlock could never bring himself to, especially since he thinks so little of me and my emotions. But, but I don't need affirmation from him, that isn't what our situation is for." At that point Alex had delved into the array of rather lewd questions about how their _situation_ worked, ignobly ending a much needed discussion of Layla's emotional state. As Layla recalled the conversation she almost regretted Sherlock having heard it, but then again, this apology or whatever it was wouldn't have happened. She looked up into his face, his eyes were shielded again but Layla could see the traces of sadness in them, just behind the glass barrier.

"Sherlock, I don't need or expect an apology from you. You owe me nothing and our situation will never warrant that you would. Just try to respect me, in some small regard, either intellectually or otherwise. I think I deserve at least that." Sherlock nodded stiffly and cleared his throat, things were getting too personal, too sentimental he needed to break the spell.

"Good. Now that we have that settled I have some questions about the optative. There is one instance, in particular, that I feel it is unwarranted." He pulled a manuscript out of his jacket and pointed to the culprit. "I think it should be a subjunctive, it would represent the unreality fairly enough." Layla continued searching his face, she was sure she had seen something there a few seconds ago, something she felt the pit of her stomach pulling towards. When she didn't respond, Sherlock looked at her sharply. "Am I wrong?"

Layla pulled herself out of the fairy land she had been indulging in where Sherlock had emotions and at least one of them concerning her and inspected the sentence.

"Ah, yeah. No, sorry, that needs to be an optative. It's iterative, so its aspect reveals more than the subjunctive." Sherlock nodded and made a note in his margins before returning the booklet to his jacket.

"Thank you, Layla, as always your cooperation is much appreciated." He finished adjusting his jacket and looked back down at her giving her a small forced smile before turning to leave. Layla caught him as he made to leave, placing a tentative hand upon his cheek and directing him back towards her. Sherlock opened his mouth as though to speak but either thought otherwise or forgot what he was going to say. Layla gazed into his eyes for what felt like a solid minute as they stood there together, silently. Her hand was the only part of her touching him and it and his cheek below it grew warm with the sustained contact. Layla could feel his breathe on her face, short and shallow, he was tense, on edge, like he was primed to sprint off. But he didn't, he stayed put and let Layla melt a tiny layer of his ice barrier. Layla wouldn't have said that his face softened, nor that it relaxed but it did change. Maybe it was the light in his eyes. She kissed him then. Leaving her hand upon his face she stood up on tip toe and touched her lips delicately to his, nothing lustful or aggressive to it. This was intimate, soft, sweet. She was sure he would push her away. But he didn't, he allowed her lips to envelope his in fluttering movements. He didn't flinch or pull away when she laid another hand the side of his neck and held his bottom lip between her own two for a fraction of a second longer. When she breathed out, still brushing her mouth against his lips she noticed he was staring at her. He must have had his eyes open the entire time. It didn't surprise her, actually it seemed a very Sherlock thing to do. She felt ashamed immediately and stepped away from him, inwardly thanking God she hadn't tried to used tongue. But Sherlock caught her hand as she drew it away from his face and pulled her back towards him, his brow furrowed with pain, confusion, desire? She couldn't tell. He placed his hands about her waist and waited, completely still. Layla realized he was waiting for _her_, waiting for her to initiate again. So she stretched up towards him, he still made no significant move to lean down to her, and kissed him, softly as she had before. This time he moved his lips reciprocally, taking her lips in his own just as she had done before. Then she ventured a bit of tongue, just dancing over his lips, then a bit more. He opened his mouth more, welcoming her advances and making his own. Still, Layla felt not burning heat, no impetuous passion. His tongue, his lips even his hands were tender this time. His eyes were closed, she discovered when she peeked, and his brow was still dark. The perfection of the moment was shattered by the jarring tones of her phone. Layla nearly leapt out of her skin and Sherlock released her immediately, making some pretense of checking his own phone to avoid looking her in the eye. She forcefully unlocked her phone and glanced down at the text from an unknown number, _Congratulations, you're the first._ She was stunned and confused. Who was this and what were they referring to? Sherlock must have observed the question on her face, as he reached out towards her,

"May I?" She set the phone in his hand and watched a flicker of something mar the normal serenity of his face.

"What is it? Sherlock?" He resumed his normal demeanor and tapped the screen a few times before handing the phone back to her.

"Nothing important, a memory."

"A memory, of yours? Texting me? I don't-" Sherlock leant over this time and resumed the kiss, mechanically replaying all the motions Layla had employed before. Not original, but tender enough and Layla forgot about the text. He parted from her and breathed "It isn't important anymore." Layla managed to press one final chaste kiss on his delightful mouth before he stood up straight again, out of her reach.

"Thank you for the additional lesson." He rumbled softly, lightly running his fingertips across her hand as she let it fall from his shoulder and then bowed out of her apartment, shutting the door with a muffled tap.

"You're welcome." Layla sighed to the empty room. She stood there transfixed by what had just happened for an undeterminable amount of time. She couldn't believe it. She had kissed Sherlock Holmes. And he had reciprocated. Not a dirty, lust-fueled sparring of teeth and tongues, a tender_, sentimentally- charged_ gesture. If a hug had followed, Layla would have thought Sherlock was drugged, or she was dreaming. And yet there she was, standing in her apartment, clearly awake since she could feel every molecule of her body humming and her brain racing. She pinched herself to be sure, and yes, it hurt as it should. Definitely awake and very glad no one was there to see her perform such a silly and cliché action. Layla uprooted herself and drifted her way to the kitchen making herself a cup of tea to give herself something to keep her hands occupied. She could still feel his lips. Warm and soft and nothing like the rest of Sherlock.

"mmmm…" she was falling into lustful daydreams, time for a distraction. "A book. I should read, soon. Something dense and engaging and not at all sexy.

A quarter way through_ The Fellowship of the Ring_ Layla received a voice message from an unknown number. _Sherlock Holmes is a poor choice if you value your mental and personal safety. Be warned._

Layla went to check the number to the last message, but it was gone. Sherlock must've deleted it. She was pretty sure though that it was a different number. Besides, it had a different feeling to it. More foreboding than mysterious. Lengthy and serious rather than pithy. She could however assume that they were both spurred on by the same singular act of earlier that afternoon.

"Meh." She muttered to herself and tossed her phone down, she couldn't really care less about all this mysterious spy information and Sherlock's weird stalker-ish acquaintances. She could ask Sherlock about it tomorrow. For now, Tolkien was calling.


	7. The Secret

She dreamed a perfect dream that night. Her overly imaginative brain combined with the delicious kiss created a divine concoction of Layla's ideal future. She dreamed of a Sherlock that kissed her like that, laid in bed with her, touching her even when it wasn't absolutely necessary. She loved him in her dream, she told him. He smiled, no condescending spite, just a smile. The semi-real-ish potential made it even more convincing, he didn't do anything too out of character like tell her he loved her, or make dinner for her. Just a few little things that made this the most sublime dream she had ever had.

When she woke up the next morning she _needed_ him, thanks to the dream mostly. But wow did she need him, it was a dull throb in her center and every time she thought of Sherlock the throb intensified, sending her squirming. She snatched up her phone and typed up a text, _I need you inside me, soon._ And then added _I'm touching myself thinking about it_, it was true, so why not let him know?

She reread the text and deleted it all, too needy, too raunchy. It seemed way outside her character. She tried again: _I think another session is in order._ Better. She sent it and received a response almost immediately. _Occupied. Upstairs by 10._ He set the time and place, now all she had to do was wait. Unfortunately, she wasn't sure she could wait three hours. She decided to occupy the time with some much needed grooming.

And thirty minutes later she was bathed, shaved and plucked. Legs smooth like silk and eyebrows neatly defined. What else could she do? Some other shaving, maybe… Maybe just some trimming. When she had modified basically all the hair on her body she stood naked in front of her mirror trying to decide on the under things she would wear. She chose a racy silk and lace combo set, dark teal, and tried them on.

"They'll do." She knew what she was going to do tomorrow, it was time for a good shopping trip. It was almost 8 and she didn't want to be press for time whilst shopping so she wouldn't go that day. Now what to do for another two hours? She painted her nails to match the lingerie. It took forever since she never painted them, but she was quite pleased with the result.

"Sherlock is going to notice and be suspicious of my motives." She removed the polish on her fingernails but left the toenails alone, they looked too lovely to mess with, he could make all the assumptions he wanted. They're just toenails. It was 9:15. She knew she wouldn't be able to read or watch anything, she would just end up pacing or looking for something else to do. Now she only needed to distract herself for some 30 minutes or so, she would want to give herself time to sneak past John. 30 minutes… just enough time for a pre-game show.

Without coming to an _eventful_ conclusion Layla frittered away the remaining time and finished dressing positively vibrating with arousal. When Sherlock finally found her she would be a most enthusiastic participant. She tiptoed up the stairs envisioning the next hour or so, she wanted to kiss him again, feel those lips, but not like last time, well maybe after a bit of last time's method she would move on to a more impure approach. The door was closed, she pressed her ear up against it and heard nothing. Maybe John was out? Or maybe he was reading, enjoying the Sherlock-lessness. In fact, she was almost certain that was what he was doing.

"Crap." she muttered under her breath. How could she explain this? She probably couldn't, not without arousing suspicion. Plus her outfit wasn't exactly subtle. The length of her dress wasn't really suitable for instructing in Greek. Nor the fact that it was skin tight, not exactly exposing her but not really hiding much either. And teal, to match her toes and panties. It all screamed special outfit, well John wouldn't be able to see her undergarments but no matter, she wouldn't be able to play this off. So she needed to find a way to distract him. Maybe Mrs. Hudson. She jogged back down the stairs to her land lady's private rooms and knocked.

"Oh, Layla, you look fancy dear? Something special going on hmm?"

"Thanks. Yeah, I'm planning a surprise for the boys. Sherlock is already out but I need John to be distracted for a while so I can grab a few things from their apartment. Can you do that for me?"

"Oooo, fun! Of course dear. Just a mo. You go hide. I'll get him down here for a spell and you sneak on up there. How much time do you need? Not much, I hope, I'm about to pop over to the shop."  
>"Only a few minutes, I'm not going to leave, so if you can get him to come down here I'll just sneak on in."<p>

"Lovely, lovely. What are you planning?" Crap. Layla had not thought this through.

"Oh, um. Um. I'll be cooking them dinner, secretly. On a hotplate in Sherlock's room. And surprising them later."  
>"Ah. That's… nice love." Mrs. Hudson was unimpressed. It didn't really matter though, she would stop snooping now that she knew it wasn't anything interesting. "Go on. I'll go get Dr. Watson." She shooed Layla back to her room and called up to John as she mounted the stairs.<p>

"Dr. Watson! I've made some tea and nibbles, care for a cup?"

Layla heard two sets of footsteps descend and Mrs. Hudson's door shut. She rushed out her door and hurried up the stairs as quickly as possible, full out running to Sherlock's room and closing the door. She breathed a sigh of relief and glanced down at her phone. It was almost 10.

By the time 10:30 rolled around Layla was both furious and incomprehensibly horny. The waiting only made her need worse. Anticipation was spilling into every corner of her body and driving her mad. She was glad she had taken off the fingernail polish because she was gnawing on her thumb nail viciously. A few minutes later she heard Sherlock, he and John had a short-ish conversations but Layla couldn't make out what was said. He marched in shortly thereafter and sharply closed the door. Layla had to stifle a scream when she saw him. He was covered all over his upper half with blood and armed with what looked to be a whaling harpoon. With her eyes nearly popping out of their sockets she silently mouthed _What?_

He looked confused for a moment and then looked down at himself and shrugged. "Oh this, I just solved a case. It involved harpooning a dead pig for two hours." He wasn't attempting to lower his voice and seemed completely uninterested by the entire situation.

"Shouldn't you be a bit quieter?" Layla whispered.

"Oh. No. He won't notice, he's used to me talking to myself in here. Besides, he's leaving now. I sent him out after some shopping, I need the papers for cases. We probably have an hour and a half until he gets back, shopping always takes ever so long with John." An hour and a half. That wasn't much time and it was all contingent upon how long it took John to pick up milk.

"That isn't much time Sherlock." she hissed. He looked surprised.

"How much time do you need, planning a film viewing or something?" He was pretty high strung today. Probably wouldn't be good company. Layla sighed, she had been waiting for this for literally half the day and now she was going to be thoroughly disappointed.

"Never mind, Sherlock. Just, go on. It's not like I've been waiting for this or anything." She waved towards the bathroom door, he needed to shower before she could so much as lay a single finger on him. He was disgusting.

"What? What've I said?" He snapped, unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it off him. Layla didn't respond. She stared. No, she gawked at him, her mouth was hanging open a bit. His fair skin was sharply contrasted by the blood that had seeped through his shirt. It was so morbidly beautiful, and strangely arousing. Hell, not strange. At this point Layla was pretty sure she would be aroused by Sherlock in a potato sack. Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued removing his clothes. "You're drooling." He sneered as he stepped past her into the bathroom.

"You want me to join you?" she whispered in after him.

"No." He closed the door. Layla thought she heard him lock it. It was times like these it seemed like Sherlock really couldn't care less about her. Perhaps yesterday was just him manipulating her.

"You should take this time to disrobe. We needn't waste any of this _valuable_ time with formalities." He called through the bathroom door, the water was already running and splashing, Layla figured he was already in the water, glistening. She smiled vapidly as she imagined the scene behind the door. The water shut off and snapped Layla back to reality. She pulled her dress off but left her undergarments on, no point in wearing them if they don't get to be relished. Sherlock stepped out of the bathroom still damp. Steam was practically billowing off his skin as he walked into the room. It must have been a really hot shower. His skin was pink from the heat. Layla swallowed audibly and sat gracelessly back on his bed as he approached her.

"You didn't hear me?" He looked her up and down eyes resting momentarily on her toenails and then the lingerie. "No. You ignored me. The nails are a nice touch. Well chosen, teal is your color." A compliment, either he regretted his earlier comments or he had added the skill to his usual conversative repertoire. It did the trick either way since, had Layla been upset, she would've forgotten and, as it was, she was extremely flattered. The only problem was he wasn't exactly _prepared_ for their activity, his mind was probably still elsewhere on the case or something.

"Do you like them?" She asked tracing a line across the edge of her lingerie. Well, at least she held is attention if not his interest, he quirked an eyebrow as he looked at her.

"Are you attempting to be _sexy_?" There was the usual Sherlock. The earlier compliment must've been a fluke. Layla sighed heavily and stood up gesturing down at his not-so-arousedness and looked up exasperated.

"I'm trying to elicit a reaction, yes. That is the whole point of me scheduling this." Sherlock glanced down and then back at Layla looking bored.

"Oh, yes. That. I thought I could take care of your request orally and then move on to more useful pursuits." Always the charmer.

"Come now, Sherlock. I've waited for upwards of three hours for this and I've always responded to your summons. Shouldn't I at least register higher on your priorities list than only deserving a quick bout of oral sex? I want the real deal." She sounded a bit like a child on the edge of a tantrum. "And yes I am being histrionic because my hormones are driving me mad. Now shut up, get it up and get inside me." Sherlock was taken aback but complied with her request, keeping silent as Layla basically attacked his still flaccid penis with her fingers, they were shaking with anticipation. That was as far as he followed her instructions. As he dislodged her from his mouth, she had latched on like a sucker fish, and saved his genitals from her indelicacy.

"That is not conducive to your goal." He muttered shaking his head. "What has gotten into you? You were never graceful but you always had some self respect. Pull yourself together, honestly." He took her face in his hands and leaned down to kiss her, running tongue along hers and smiling into her mouth as she groaned. The same kiss as yesterday had in no way the same effect as it had previously. She upped the intensity by employing teeth. He seemed pleased enough with her additions, she had finally earned what she_ really _wanted. She could feel it against her stomach. She broke away and practically ripped her panties off pushing Sherlock onto the bed and mounting him. She was already so aroused she slid down over him effortlessly. As she sat down onto his lap she sighed closing her eyes and smiling. His entire body was still emanating heat from the shower and it felt delicious against her over stimulated skin. Once she adjusted to him inside her at this new angle she proceeded to ride him right there seated on the edge of the bed. She was so enthusiastic she accidently let his name slip from her lips. Since she had decided to keep eye contact with him the entire time, just to be more aggressive, she was able to gauge his reaction. It was surprise and excitement. His eyes widened and dilated and he began to thrust up into her more enthusiastically.

"Say it again." his voice has thick and husky, it drove Layla to the edge and she moaned out 'Sherlock' as she shivered with orgasm, he climaxed along with her looking absolutely surprised by it. Layla rolled off him and flopped onto the bed smiling and flexing her toes in delight. She was perfectly content. Finally.

"That was-" For once Sherlock was at a loss for words.

"Fucking awesome." Layla finished his statement in her own special way, surely not with what he was going to say.

-different." He turned his head and gazed at her. "You." he paused again searching for words, "You have never been so enthused."

"I've been horny for four hours straight, there comes a point when I get desperate. That is the result." He lay back and stared at the ceiling.

"You talk in your sleep."  
>"Hmm?" Layla was still high on endorphins.<p>

"You talk in your sleep. I heard you when I came down last night and found you unconscious. Is that particular dream what inspired this... ferventness?" He had Layla's attention now, she panicked a bit as she considered the various things he might have heard.

"Oh, that." She attempted to put on a cool façade. "That was just one of those crazy dreams, I don't really remember it, just flashes and those don't really mean anything."

"Hm. You said that you loved me." That explained his distance that day, she had spooked him in her sleep.

"Huh. Funny that, I don't remember. It was just a dream, shouldn't set much stock in it." She waved her hand dismissively pulling her best Sherlock impression.

"Sherlock! I have the papers." John called from the living room. Thank God for John, this conversation could be dismissed for the time being. Sherlock sprung up and tossed on some pajamas and his dressing gown.

"Anything interesting?" He waltzed out shutting the door behind him. Her phone buzzed a second later_. I'll let you know when you can leave. _She would have to wait here for an indefinite amount of time, so she climbed in his bed and went to sleep_._

When she finally woke up, Layla was lying on her side, cocooned in warmth. It was dark and she was comfortable so she decided she would just go back to sleep, that was, until she heard the rhythmic ticking of a clock. She didn't have an analog clock in her apartment. Where was it coming from? _Oh dear lord, I'm not in my apartment! Where am I? I'm naked. I'm naked in someone- ah I'm in Sherlock's bed. What? Where is he? It's nearly dark. What is happening? _She was a bit hysterical. First, she couldn't believe what was happening. Why hadn't he woke her up and moved her, no doubt he hated having her there. Second, how long had she been asleep? Surely it wasn't too late, she looked down at the phone clutched in her hand. It was after 5 pm. She had slept for a very long time. Hopefully nothing was wrong with her. Third, where was Sherlock and John and their loud conversations, the quirky sounds of their living apartment? She had four messages on her phone, she pulled them up_: John is distracted. Leave now._ Another _ You missed your chance. What are you doing? _A bit later _We have a client coming in. You'll have to stay back there until he leaves._ Finally fifteen or so minutes after that _We are leaving town, you can leave when you wake up._

She shot out of the bed.

"What the actual fuck?" She dashed to the door, disregarding the fact that she was buck naked and flung it open. Empty. Completely fucking empty. Lights off, things gathered up. Sherlock had fucking packed for a weekend away and left her. She trudged back to his room and gathered up her clothing crawling into it and then hurtling down the stairs. Yes, their door was left unlocked but tough shit. That was what Sherlock got for leaving her there.

The next morning Layla rose early and went about her business. She was determined not to let Sherlock's carelessness ruin her day, not this one or the next one or the next, however long he was to be away. She would go to work, and watch some television and today, today she was still going shopping and it was going to be glorious. Shopping for the first time in _London_, not that she had a ton of money to spare, but still.

Five hours and the equivalent of 500 dollars later Layla was laden with bags (mostly lingerie if she was being honest) and trying desperately to hail a taxi. For some reason, maybe she was invisible, they were driving right by her.

"Layla?" She swiveled around but didn't recognize anyone so she kept walking.

"Layla, Layla from Baker St." Well that was her. She turned back around and stopped scanning the faces. Oh, there was… what was her name? Molly. Molly, she had met her in passing one day when stopping by Mrs. Hudson's to pay the rent. She was the 'poor thing' Mrs. Hudson was always tutting over. Something about Sherlock being terrible to her. What was new?

"Hi, Molly, right?" Molly smiled holding out her hand.

"That's right. We met at Baker St briefly, you're the new tenant, I think."

"Yep, in the basement." Layla took her hand quickly struggling with her bags.

"Been shopping then? Need some help?" She smiled so genuinely and reached out to take a few bags. _How could Sherlock be rude to her? She's so sweet. Ah, of course, he must walk all over her._

"Oh, thanks. You shouldn't though, I need to suffer for my exorbitant spending today." Molly tittered but still managed to pry a few bags from Layla's grasp.

"I know how it goes. I spent almost 100 quid on a dress for Christmas. It was a waste." Her face fell a bit but then she looked back up and smiled again. "Trying to catch a cab?"

"Yeah. I must be invisible or something."

"Happens to me all the time. Although, everyone treats me like that. Why don't we get a cuppa over there and you can call one." When Layla looked confused Molly took her phone out and jiggled it "You know, on your phone."

"Ah, yes. You know, that sounds simply amazing." The two of them walked to a nearby café and dropped Layla's bags. Layla flopped down in her chair and Molly waved down a waitress.

They spent a good thirty minutes just chatting. Molly was sweet and friendly, pretty bright and genuine, which was refreshing. They each talked about their respective work and laughed about Layla's neighbors and their eccentricities. Layla was careful to avoid her more intimate relationships with either of the boys, just in case Molly had feelings for one of them. She had a sneaking suspicion Molly had eyes for Sherlock, and honestly who wouldn't, but was too timid to assert them. Or she had already been shot down and that was what Mrs. Hudson had been referring to.

"Well this has been lovely Molly, but my taxi is here." Layla started to gather her bags and Molly hopped up to help. "Oh, no, no. I'm fine, I have to get these into Baker St. on my own anyway, it's not like anyone is going to help me _there_." They both laughed and said their good-byes. Layla squeezed into the taxi feeling happy, she might have made a new friend.

Later that afternoon Layla was sitting on her bed, decked out in her crappiest, albeit comfiest sweats watching television, as usual. A light set of knocks rapt on her door.

"Yeah, come on in, it's open." She didn't even look up from the screen, but she knew it wasn't Sherlock, so no need to panic.

"I'm gone a week and you completely forget your manners?" She looked up and grinned, it was Henry, back earlier than she had expected. She waved him in and focused back on the program.

"Um, Layla, isn't this a kids show?"

"No, it may be family friendly but it is totally suitable for adults." He grinned wolfishly at her. "Oh, OK, I fancy the lead actor. I mean, look at him. Dark hair, blue eyes, those lips, amazing cheekbones. He's adorable!"

"Looks a bit like-"  
>"Don't say it. Just, shh." She cut her eyes at him, she knew he was going to say Sherlock but she didn't need to hear it right now, she was still mad at him for leaving her clueless in his bed.<p>

"Hmm, guilty about the fornicating then?"  
>"Did, I not just say shush. I'm watching my show." She held her hand up to stifle anymore snide remarks, looking back at the two actors bickering on screen. When the credits finally ran Layla lowered her hand and wiped her eyes.<p>

"Were, were you crying?" Henry leaned forward squinting at her.

"Yes. That was a good episode."

"It was a rerun, I'm sure you've seen it before."

"Yes, so?" She glared at him "And how would you know?"

"I, erm, may have seen it before too. And may I just say, those two, so gay." Layla smiled and chuckled a bit.

"Yeah, a bunch of the die-hard fans think so too." She flipped off the set and leaned back on the bed gesturing for Henry to sit in her desk chair. "So, what's up? Why are you back so early?"

"Oh, nothing much. I've been called back on…" he paused, that was unusual for Henry, he seemed uncertain about something "I guess you could say personal business. I've a friend in the high ups here who needs a favor from me, so here I am." Layla was bored already.

"Want some tea? Coffee? Something stronger?" She scampered over to her kitchen waiting for his response.

"No, I'm just here for a short visit. So… back to business. How's the sex? I can tell, you've been indulging. Plus, Alex may have let some word slip." Layla snorted indecorously.

"Alex would. She's about as secretive as a gunshot. You asked for it, here's the gossip. Yes, you're right, I've been _fornicating_. No big deal, I slept with both roommates. Although not simultaneously. I'm not that bad."  
>"I knew Sherlock- I knew you would-" Henry cleared his throat and started again "I knew you and Sherlock would end up enjoying each other's company, it just needed time." He had the strangest look on his face as Layla tilted her head and squinted her eyes at Henry. Was he embarrassed? But why?<br>"Henry… Are you hiding something?"  
>"Huh? No." He sounded completely unbelievable.<p>

"Henry, you're lying and for once I can tell." She slid closer to him on the foot of her bed, she was going to extradite this information from him no matter what.

"Nothing, just leave it Layla. I'm not meant to tell." She shook her head at Henry. This wasn't OK.

"Nope. Not giving up. Tell me. Now. Or so help me, I will make you pay Henry." She put on her best threatening face and locked him with her eyes. He refused to meet hers and began fiddling with his jacket.

"I really need to get going. I'll talk with you later." He turned towards the door.

"No, no. No you don't Henry!" She leapt off the bed and fell onto him, actually intending to block the door, this worked as well.

"OK, just, don't tell anyone. I know, well, I knew Sherlock before you met him. I'm the reason you got that apartment. I, er, I arranged it. We figured it would be good for the two of you to interact. I tried to warn him that you would do this, but he wouldn't listen, he just wanted someone to distract Sherlock_. You_ were perfect for the job because you're brilliant and really difficult to be around, so I thought, hey great distraction for a crazy clever detective. But then that damn cult thing happened. I didn't think the spots I was giving you were the inceptive ones… This is all my fault really. I was glad you found him unattractive, but I took my teasing too far, and then I was right. Stupid. So stupid."  
>"Woah, woah! Slow down there chippy." Layla needed a break, some explanation. Her mind was spinning. Henry knew Sherlock? Henry set her up to be Sherlock's plaything? <em>To distract<em> him? Henry arranged the cult meet up?

"What are you talking about? You know Sherlock, you know—what about he and I being neighbors seemed like a good idea? You've seen him, he's so my type! And you didn't think I would eventually jump on that?"

"Well, honestly, I didn't think he would, you know, let you. He always seemed asexual to me."

"URGH! Henry, you have some serious explaining to do and don't you dare laugh because I just sounded like Ricky, because this is no laughing matter." She was livid. Perfectly livid.

"Well, he's awful… and rude and I thought you would hate him. And you're boisterous and lively and doing some really interesting research so I thought you would give him something to study or at least seethe at until Mycroft got everything back together." He winced a bit after quickly stumbling out the last five words.

"Um, who's Mycroft?" He didn't answer. "Henry. Who is Mycroft? You seemed really eager to just pass right over his name, so he must be important." She nodded her head when he winced again.

"He's... my connection."

"And what else?"

"Sherlock's older brother."

"AH HA! So you and Sherlock's brother have been orchestrating this all along! What? Is he some high up? Is that why the museum has been so tolerant of me? He is, isn't he. I knew you weren't working as a professor anymore! Your hours were too weird, and you knew too many weirdly specific things! What, are you a spy? You're spying for the British government, aren't you? That's why you're always in Germany! No wonder I haven't seen your 'newest' article, it doesn't exist! You're a bloody spy!"  
>"No. Not a spy, I'm working as a cryptographer. Really for the German government but I'm a go between for England as well. The two countries cooperate... enough."<p>

Layla broke down into hysterical laughter. Her research wasn't important, she was just a pawn. A pawn to help out one of Henry's friends. She wasn't even meant to be here. She should have been at home, wallowing in the terrible Chicago spring, completely and contentedly alone, not pining over some aloof British man who would never love her back.

"Oh great, now I love him!" She threw her arms in the air, unaware she had just spoken aloud.

"You love him?"  
>"Huh? What?" Layla turned on him. "Love who? What are you talking about? Are you actually psychic? Did they put a chip in your brain or something?"<p>

"No, you just said 'Oh great, now I love him!'" He mimicked her voice and tossed his hands up like she had, before looking back at her mildly bewildered.

"I said that out-loud?"  
>"Yep." She slammed her palm onto her forehead, immediately regretting it. She hissed and looked down at her now red palm, no doubt her face would bear the mark.<p>

"Um, let's not act like I said that. In fact, I didn't , you were hearing things."

"Layla, you can't seriously have feelings for him. He's a sociopath."  
>"You know, he says that but I don't think it's true. He seems more like he has Asperser's." Henry rolled his eyes.<p>

"That's not a proper answer. Are you or are you not in love with the man."  
>"No. No I'm not. I was just having this argument with myself. I clearly thought 'who would never love me back' that doesn't state that I currently love him only that if I were to do so he wouldn't reciprocate." Denial, it would work for now. At least on Henry, his shoulders relaxed and his sat back down.<p>

"OK, you can't get too involved with him, Layla. He's dangerous, well at least being around him in particular would be dangerous. Listen, I really have to go now. I'm going to be in enough trouble as it is for having spilt all this information to you as it is. You just can't tell Sherlock about this. At all. Or anyone. Just pretend this didn't happen and go back to your life as, as though this never happened." He edged back out of the room and closed the door. Layla was pretty sure she could hear him running, actually running away. Boy did she have a ton of questions.

_YOU organized the cult in for Sherlock? _She couldn't help but continue barraging Henry with questions.

_Yes. We had a connection who wanted out of the ceremony._

_Are you lying?_

_Somewhat, don't bother yourself over it. It's done and over now._

_Be warned I'm going to thoroughly throttle you next time I see you._

Henry didn't bother responding. Layla wasn't surprised, he was such a coward sometimes. She just couldn't believe he had been lying to her for so long, it didn't seem in character. Maybe she just didn't know him as well as she thought. She would have to start being more private about some things and nag at Alex for her loose lips.

"Maybe this Mycroft fellow was the mysterious voice message sender." She was talking to her sandwich fifteen minutes later. "Yea, must have been. The real question is who sent the first text." Her sandwich made no response so Layla went back to quiet contemplation. Perhaps she needed to take a break from obsessing over all the new information she had acquired and do something else, anything else. She could do her wash, she really needed some clean clothes. _Or_ she could raid the boys' apartment.

She leapt up from her chair, her plan clearly decided upon, finished her sandwich and stuffed her phone in her pocket. It was time for mischief.

Layla spent two and a half hours pillaging 221B and enjoyed every stinking minute of it, and at times it did in fact stink. Despite spending so much time rifling through personal belongings and books Layla left with only one souvenir: Sherlock's black button down. She loved that shirt, it was just tight enough and he looked _so_ foxy in it.

She slept in it that night, it smelled like his apartment, like him. She could basically hear Henry tutting at her, he would not approve of her displaying such a show of intimacy or affection. Screw him, she liked it, Sherlock wouldn't need to know of it, she could wash it the next morning and secret it back in before they got back. Maybe. Or she could let him find out she had stolen it, it was very much in her character, stealing clothing. And take a picture of herself in it. And leave that picture in the folds of the shirt.

"You have a problem." Layla shook her head and sighed. She was falling into what seemed to be a serious addiction. So instead she popped out the shirt and changed into it to go to bed. Laying in bed Layla set her alarm for an ungodly early hour determined to return the shirt before Sherlock could find out. She really didn't want to explain this to Sherlock, it just wasn't worth the trouble.


	8. The Routine

Layla needn't have spent so much energy the next morning trying to hide her impulsive raiding. Sherlock knew within instants of returning to the flat. By mid-afternoon he was practically banging her door down. Layla assumed he would be irate so she was rather tentative about opening the door. She was therefore incredibly surprised to find a happy Sherlock at her front door, or rather, a contented Sherlock, at least as pleased as Layla had seen him.

"You've been pilfering again." He said matter-of-factly without any anger in his voice, just observing.

"Yep, you caught me. I should've known you'd notice. So what was it that gave me away?" She stepped aside to let him and leaned against the wall while Sherlock performed his usual inspection of her and her premises.

"A strand of hair." He looked smug but he was kind of smoldering like he was practically glowing with self satisfaction.

"Ah, no. That's not good enough, that could've been from any of my other visits." She waved aside his explanation and stared at him waiting for another. She had to admit, Layla enjoyed seeing his brain work, or at least hearing about it afterwards.

"A specific type of hair. In the shirt." Layla pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled. She knew she should have worn underwear.

"Yeah, yeah but how did you know so quickly?"  
>"Simple. I was going to wear it." Not exactly his most exquisite work.<p>

"So… where'd you go?" Layla pursed her lips and raised her brows, she was trying to seem like it wasn't important and she hadn't been incredibly incensed a few days ago.

"Out of town, for a case. You're upset but you're trying to hide it which explains why you stole the shirt in the first place and then later decided to cover up the theft. And now you're trying to not be confrontational about it by asking a vague question. Honestly Layla you've more brains than to try and fool me. Don't try it, you won't succeed."

"Sherlock, I swear to God you're the most pompous man I've ever had the dis-" Sherlock's response stopped her dead in her tracks.

"That's more like it." He grinned and swooped down to pin her against the wall.

Breaking off an extended kiss Layla pushed him away and stared up at him. "Did you just incite me for kicks?"

His mouth twitched and he fixed her with those steely eyes. He looked a bit mad, like he was on some sort of high. _He probably is high,_ Layla thought to herself, _high on his own awesomeness._

"I've spent the past 48 hours obsessing over a gigantic hound and negotiating the drug induced ravings of myself and two other men. Moreover John is unbearable when he's in a state. I needed a release." He promptly reattached himself to her and began to work her jeans down and off her bottom. Layla was surprised. Surprised and flattered. He was adamant and aggressive, more aggressive than he'd ever been. Maybe those drugs were still in his system, or maybe all the adrenaline from his focus on the case needed to go somewhere. Either way this was new and more than welcomed. Layla could feel her head starting to swim. His tongue was doing things it hadn't done before, things her tongue hadn't done before.

Her pants were off and her panties followed shortly thereafter strewn, forgotten on the floor. Sherlock was fully clothed. This upset Layla, so she yanked his shirt from out his trousers and began to unbutton it from the bottom making sure to let the back of her hand to trail up his stomach in the process. He hummed appreciatively_. Wow he's actually enjoying this. He's such an addict._ Layla didn't care that this didn't have anything to do with her personally, the attention was well received by her nonetheless.

Hair. She wanted her hands in his hair. She tugged his fully unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders and ran the tips of her fingers along his collarbones, up his neck and then delved into his hair, latching on. She decided that, since he seemed so inclined towards this activity today, she might as well attempt to kiss him elsewhere and see if he responded as well to that. So, starting with his left collar bone, keeping her hands entwined in his hair, she intermittedly kissed and nibbled the delightful ivory of his skin. He stayed close, his breath tickling her ear as it escaped in short puffs of air. He took his hands from the wall on either side of her and began to unfasten his trousers. He kicked them off as well as his underwear and leaned back against her, their nakedness pressing together. Layla leaned up onto the tips of her toes to playfully nip at the lobe of his ear and Sherlock took the opportunity to hoist her off the ground and against the wall. Layla wrapped her bare legs around his waist and waited for him to make the next move. Sherlock fastened his grip onto her bottom and moved her into position, lingering there tantalizingly. Aching for it, Layla flexed her legs trying to pull him closer and bit his ear harder.

"Patience." His voice vibrated through her, it was lower than before. Layla was pretty sure he was employing what he knew to be his sexiest register. Like he was taunting her. He did love to play games.

"You know by now that I'm not a patient woman, Sherlock Holmes." He obliged her gliding inside and pressing his body firmly against hers. She moaned, this was a new angle and it had been a few days. Layla dropped her hands to allow her arms to help support her on Sherlock's shoulders. When he finally began to work in and out of her, it took barely a minute to send her into throws of ecstasy.

"Must...always… do… this… against… a wall" Layla groaned out between thrusts. Sherlock merely grunted and kept at it, this must have been an intense case.

After Layla finished Sherlock spun her off the wall and onto the bed slamming down on top of her looking positively possessed. She hadn't yet seen him quite this intense, at least not in the bedroom. It was exciting. A few shorter harder thrusts later and he came inside her, hard, groaning and shuddering as he collapsed on top of her. His warm breath in the crook of her neck stirred the hairs and tickled her ear. She lay completely still for a few tense seconds, not completely relaxed as he left her in the midst of peaking. He must have noticed her tautness, as he reached down and stroked her extremely sensitive mound a few times and sealed the deal by kissing the curve of her neck lightly like she had done to him earlier. She tightened around his now flaccid member and relaxed into her orgasm sighing voluptuously. She thought she felt him stir inside of her but he pulled out and laid down beside her, still breathing heavily.

"Thank you." She whispered when she had recovered her mental faculties.

"Hmmm. You would have liked Dartmoor. They really enjoyed their myths out there." Layla rolled over and looked up at Sherlock, he was laying with eyes closed and his hands folded over his stomach, completely at peace. She ventured to scoot closer to him, letting her breasts rest against his arm as she leaned on her elbow to look over at his face. He didn't react to the contact. Maybe he had fallen asleep.

"Tell me about it, about the case, I mean." His eyes snapped opened and fell upon her face.

"Why? You've never expressed interest in my work before." He seemed suspicious.

"Well, you said I would've liked it and you were gone for a couple of day _and_ you were in a really great mood when you got back so I assumed it was a particularly interesting adventure you boys just had." She shrugged and smiled softly, too sated to be upset.

"Oh, in that case," he closed his eyes again and related all the events of the past few days animatedly. He must not have noticed when Layla fell asleep or if he did, he didn't care because Layla found herself asleep curled around him several hours later, he was still and deeply asleep, fluttering the hairs on her forehead with his rhythmic breathing. She smiled and snuggled closer to him for warmth positively vibrating with delight when he shifted to fit his arm _around her_. She knew it didn't actually mean anything, he was just very deeply asleep , but it was nice to be held for once.

Layla woke up first the next morning, she had to have because Sherlock was still there. He must have slept soundly through the night, there was no way he would have remained laying there as he was otherwise. Layla was closely tucked into the crook of his shoulder, lying with her head upon his upper bicep of his folded arm and the tip of her nose was centimeters from his chest. He had turned on his side during the night. Layla dared a quick glance up at his face, he was resting his head on his lower arm, the same arm she was lying on, leaving his nose and chin against her hairline and forehead. When she focused she could feel his breath rustling her hair. Layla smiled to herself and concentrated very hard on not moving, she didn't want to disturb this intimacy since it was sure to be absolutely unique. Remaining absolutely still, she took in the beauty and tranquility of that moment. She was also on her side, her left arm curled up and around herself leaving her hand resting on her waist. Her other hand was beneath her face, alright, upper half accounted for so she moved down. She was in a fairly loose fetal position, her legs were pulled up only as far as his body would allow. He was so close her knees were barely bent, and resting against his legs. Ah, his legs, his long ridiculous legs, in fact, his long lean body. She was staring at him now, soaking in the sight of his lovely skin and tone. How did he keep so fit? His other arm, the one resting over her, was relaxed and yet the gentle shadow of his tricep and his deltoid caught her eye. Maybe he ran or swam or something like that when he was trying to clear his mind or think, like when he played the violin at weird hours of the morning, except more sweaty, or wet. Her mind flashed through the imagined visions of Sherlock in swimming trunks, or something more athletic. Then she remembered how he looked fresh out of the shower and she felt the pit of her stomach tighten and warm. Licking her lips she looked back up him, past his chest with its light hairs and over his collar bones and the sweep of his shoulders, his full lips, his cheekbones, his bright blue eyes. His bright blues eyes watching her look him over.

She jumped and blushed furiously the red flush spreading all across her bare flesh.

"Uh, um, I was, er, just looking, I was looking at you. You looked so at peace, it was so different from the way you normally are, move. It must be exhausting."  
>He was still watching her, having pulled his head back to look down at her. His face was still relaxed, the manic raving of his mind still paused, or at least not running at full speed yet. Layla squinted, glanced back down at his body and impulsively asked, " Do you-"<p>

"I box."

"You box?" Her mind started racing again, Sherlock shirtless and nimbly maneuvering around a ring, Sherlock sweating, his whole body tensed outwitting his opponent, striking blow after blow, parrying and evading. She could see it for sure now, he was a boxer, no other explanation, although she was still attached the idea of swimming.

"You do yoga four times a week and calisthenics to trim your arms." Layla snapped back to reality and furrowed her brow.

"How? Have you been- how did you figure it out?"

"You have better than normal core strength for a woman and proportionate flexibility- yoga. You're arms are fitter than they were two weeks ago while the rest of your body has remained in basically the same physical shape. Stop the calisthenics, they're diminishing your breast size and the yoga should achieve the same goal eventually without drastically reducing your fat stores." Layla self consciously covered her breast and shook her head.

"How did you know that I did it four days a week?"  
>"Four sets of training gear in the wardrobe."<p>

Layla looked over at her closet and sighed at the sight of her bright, dirty, sports bras splayed over the side of her laundry hamper.

"Do you ever stop?"  
>"No." Layla ducked her head down and shut her eyes trying to return to this scene a minute ago when she had just discovered he boxed. <em>Think of him boxing, not judging you for the size of your boobs.<em> Naturally, all she could do was think about all the imperfections he was noticing, cataloguing, marking as inferior to his own freaking flawless body.

"I've offended you." He was still staring at her.

"No, well, not quite. Just reminded me of… things, you know, I'm insecure about." She didn't make eye contact with him but smiled sadly and pushed her hair behind her ear to give her free hand something to do. She was surprised he hadn't moved an inch, not even to remove his arm draping over her. She cleared her throat and, pretty sure she would regret it, muttered,

"Now would be a good time for you to apologize. You know for practice when you're dealing with someone whose feelings you actually care about." He withdrew his arm and Layla nodded her head, she had been right, that had ruined it completely. Then she found his hand over her arm peeling away her protective barrier. He gently dislodged his other arm from beneath her head and propped himself up before cupping her right breast with his free hand.

"Your breasts are perfectly adequate." He moved his hand to the other breast and weighed it inspecting it with what seemed to be the entirety of his attention. "You do, however, need more iron in your diet." He ran his fingers over the new bruises forming on her hip bones "It will help you prevent these."

Layla nodded slowly still not meeting his eyes and crossed her arms back over her chest, she felt like proper crap even if her boobs were A-OK and Dr. Sherlock was prescribing dietary supplements so she wouldn't be injured by _him_. He was trying to be kind but it just wasn't working.

She heard Sherlock breathe deeply and then found her head tilted up towards him. He looked intently at her keeping his finger under her chin to prevent her from looking away.

"Your feelings are important, Layla, and I apologize for injuring them. Yours are not alone in the ranks of emotions I've hurt. I will, in the future, amend my statements." He released her chin allowing her to roll away from him and pad to the bathroom. She cleaned up and pulled a robe on before walking back out.

Sherlock was still lying on the bed, now on his back, with his fingers templed. _Great, he's going to brood in my bed. Just what I need._ She rolled her eyes and shuffled into the kitchen popping some toast on and pouring some orange juice. She gathered her meager breakfast and walked over to her desk to check her email and munched on her toast.

Every so often she glanced over at Sherlock, still naked, and lost in whatever thoughts were buzzing through his mind. She had finished checking things on her computer and looked over her calendar, nothing on the docket today, not that it mattered. Her work was just a cover up, anyway. Layla must have been broadcasting her thoughts too loudly since Sherlock broke his extended silence,

"Has Mycroft contacted you?" He didn't move or even open his eyes.

"Is Mycroft the sullen one with the overly dramatic massages?"  
>"Indeed. He told you to stay away from me, did he not?" Sherlock had been practicing his conversation skills, adding a question to the end there.<p>

"Yep, something about valuing my safety." She scampered over and flopped onto the bed, Sherlock was smiling devilishly, looking much more approachable and Layla wanted to take advantage of this to learn more about his mysterious brother. "Who is he, Sherlock, and why is he so gloom and doom?"

"He's my uptight elder brother. He is ever so concerned about my life. It's endearing." Sarcasm, Sherlock was opening up with her. She was sitting cross-legged near his feet and grinning like a fool, she was so excited to finally hear about Sherlock's life from his own mouth.

"Why is he leaving me cryptic warnings about my relations with you, and for that matter, how does he know?"

"Mycroft is incredibly well-connected. He enjoys using his government influence to intimidate my new acquaintances. He did the same with John basically, although he wanted John to spy on me." He quirked up an eyebrow and grinned again. "He's right though. I'm in no way good for your personal safety." With that Sherlock swung his legs of the bed and set about to getting dressed. The wall was back up again. "I will return later, John's new girlfriend has a volume problem. I haven't been able to think properly at night for quite a while." Layla chuckled and then felt guilty.

"Um, Sherlock, have you explained to John about this whole thing?"  
>"No need, we are not involved."<br>"No, but we are sleeping together constantly and, you know, I did have a bit of a relationship with John before-"

"Hardly.

"Yes, yes we did. He cooked and stuff."  
>"Just because John was emotionally invested does not mean that you two were in 'a bit of a relationship,' that would require <em>you<em> being involved which you weren't. You were using John as we are using each other." _As you're using me_. Layla hated to admit it, but yes, she was emotionally invested at this point. That morning, even with all its problems, had sealed the deal.

Layla frittered the rest of her day away, doing chores and paying bills; paying bills with money she no longer knew the source of. Sure, she saw the checks from _the Institute_ paying her for her 'invested' scholarship which looks good for her hosting institution. It was probably this Mycroft and his gang of government lunkies. No matter, assuming her entire scholastic career was not actually falsified to manipulate her, she could just go home when her 'visiting scholar' status ended here and get back to actual, serious work. She started wondering if the new tablets were even real. Yes, they were real, they were uncovered by her own university, not a British team so she couldn't have been manipulated there, it must have been with the other Linear A tablets not leaving the museum. So her work wasn't useless, just not especially important to anyone besides herself. Her sense of self worth now reasserted as much as possible she went back to wasting the time left until Sherlock came back and distracted her from her sad little life.

Sherlock let himself into her apartment late that evening while Layla was eating a bowl of ice cream. She hopped up and tossed the bowl into the sink hoping Sherlock hadn't noticed her little indulgence.

"Enjoying your evening?" He looked from the sink back to Layla and smiled that evil little Sherlock smile "Why do you insist upon pretending to me that you're a health 'nut?'" He carefully enunciated the last word as though tiptoeing around unfamiliar slang.

"Oh, I don't know. I was worried, for some reason, you would disapprove. Why that matters, I have no idea." She turned back around and grabbed the bowl from the sink, still mostly full, and sat down at her desk to finish it. Sherlock leaned over her and sniffed the ice cream and then held his hand out.

"What is in this?" He asked after Layla set the bowl in his hand. He examined the melting chocolate ice cream while holding the spoon gingerly in his hand as though it were poisonous.

"I don't know, milk, chocolate, probably some preservatives, and seaweed, you know for coagulation." Layla reached to take the bowl back from Sherlock but he resisted holding it away from her. She frowned and crossed her arms tapping her foot.

"OK now I'm confused, just before you wanted me to eat as I normally do in front of you and now you're taking what I normally eat away from me. That's giving mixed signals."

"Preservatives." He emptied the bowl into the sink and marched over to her freezer extracting the offending carton and tossing it in the trash bin.

"Sherlock! That was expensive-ish and I love it!"

"Why would you want to put chemicals in your body that are meant to keep organics from rotting?" It was a valid question, but Layla didn't really ever think about it or really care.

"I don't. Not really. I just like ice cream. And what about you? You eat those biscuit things all the time, when you eat at all, and they're bound to be full of preservatives." He waved her off while scouring her pantry and fridge throwing away any food that did not comply with his standards.

"No! No, not my frozen enchiladas! I had those shipped over." Sherlock pulled the box back out of the trash and shoved it in her face.

"How many ingredients do enchiladas require?" He waited expectantly as she counted out the ingredients on her fingers.

"Um, well tortillas, and cheese, spices, oil and cream, I think. Maybe some other things, I don't really know."

"And how many extraneous chemicals and byproducts are in this?"

"Uh, lots." He nodded and tossed the box back into the bin as though he had clearly made his point.

"So, when you're finished inflicting your Nazi regime on my diet are you going to start me on a vitamin regimen?" She asked frowning down sadly at her tossed out food. Sherlock popped his head out of her cabinets to stare at Layla.

"With a diet such as this, you should be on a vitamin regimen." He shook a box of crackers at her.

"What has gotten into you, Sherlock. You're verging on being obsessive over my diet. Why don't you take a break deducing what state my internal organs are in from the amount of potassium sorbate I absorb through frozen food and sit down. Relax." She pried the cheesy crackers from Sherlock's grasp and walked back over to her cabinet and stowed them inside. Sherlock dropped sulking onto Layla's bed and glared over at her.

"I can't relax. Come here." Layla shook her head. He was too wired right now.

"No, I have a couple of questions. First, why are you here so early? Second, why are you so wired? Haven't you any cases on right now?"

"Just finished one. John's upset with me, I've offended his girlfriend, again. Called her vapid, which is true." Layla laughed, she had seen some of John's latest bring-homes and the past few had seemed a bit… simple. That man went through girlfriends like nobody's business. Sherlock was looking quizzically at her.

"Why is that funny?"

"Because it's so you, and, as always, when you're inappropriately frank it is terribly funny from the outside. What's her name, Silvia? I know her from the bus, she rides the same route I do for the museum. And you're right, she's a bit empty-headed. I once overheard her having a fifteen minute phone conversation about her fingernails. She does seem to make John happy though, or at least they sound happy, you know, at night." She sauntered back over to the cabinet and pulled out the rescued crackers, munching on them as she looked over at Sherlock. He rolled his eyes and pushed off the bed joining her against the kitchen counter. He extracted a cracker from the box and nibbled it tentatively.

"She's a store clerk." He sneered as he ate a second cracker. Layla smiled and looked over at Sherlock.

"You don't think she's good enough for John?"

"Obviously. She's hardly engaging. More or less attractive but she knows John's a doctor and she's stuck in a low paying job, she's using him. Beside her orgasm noises are less than convincing." Layla snorted on her cracker and coughed a couple of times, Sherlock took the box of crackers from her and replaced it with a glass of water.

"Thanks, so you've got an ear for orgasm noises now, huh?"

"It's hardly difficult." He continued eating her crackers absentmindedly. He looked a bit like a chipmunk to Layla as he nibbled.

"So, erm, how about a new case, or another language eh? That could keep your mind off of John's emotionally unfulfilling relationships." He cut his eyes at her but held his peace, still engaged in eating all her crackers. "I read this morning about that old lady who found in possession of half a kilo of heroine-"

"Stage hypnotist in Bristol. He drug traffics on the side. Clearly."

"Amazing. OK, well there's an investigation open at home I heard about from Alex the other day, a man found dead and frozen underneath a car that hasn't moved in eight months, owner's out of country."

"Slipped on an ice patch, slid under the vehicle and froze to death while concussed." Layla pressed her eyelids with her fingertips. He was going to be difficult tonight.

"You really are revved up tonight aren't you? OK, I have an idea. Let's play a game, I'm really terrible at chess, and although I bet that's what you'd prefer, we should probably stay away from that. Um, how about trivial pursuit?"  
>"Plebian."<p>

"Yes, right." She rubbed her temples, a headache coming on.

"Are you alright?" He was standing in front of her stooped down shifting his gaze from one of her eyes to the other.

"Just a headache."

He leaned back against the counter and finished off her crackers. He must have eaten them all just to keep her from having any, ass.

"Maybe crossword scramble?" She tried again.

"Explain."  
>"Ah, um, I print out two identical crosswords and we set a timer trying to beat each other's time."<br>"Are you proficient enough in such puzzles to be comfortable competing with me under time pressure?"

Layla snorted, he was so full of himself.

"Contrary to your _well studied_ opinion, I am outstandingly proficient in cross word puzzles. The writers do love Greek, also I have popular culture knowledge that I'm pretty sure you've ignored." He set his jaw and sat down on her bed waiting patiently. Layla sat down to print out the puzzles.

Challenge proffered and accepted.

She won the first round, Sherlock didn't know the title of the Beatles' Day Tripper or who JK Rowling was. Layla tried terribly hard not to laugh at him, but he was so perturb by losing. He demanded that they find something else less superfluous to bide the time.

"Information such as this is not pertinent. This was a waste of time."

"You're being a sore loser. What else are we going to do?"

Layla sat through three rounds of chess before she needed a drink.

"Care for some pinot noir?"

"No." He took the glass away from her and put it away. "And neither do you, you're going to need all your faculties for the next bout, you really are rubbish."

"Nope. I can't play anymore. Last round you had me in six moves practically. I can't take the shame." She hopped up to take down the bottle he had stashed above her cabinet. It was still out of her reach. She grunted indecorously as she hauled herself on top of the counter. Just as she had gained her balance and was reaching up to the bottle Sherlock took it up and placed it on the cabinet across the kitchen.

"Then Greek. Let's read Greek."

"No. I read Greek as my job, you go do that alone, without me. I just want to relax, keeping you occupied is not part of our agreement. Now run along so I can get drunk, alone in my sad little apartment."

"Self pity doesn't suit you." Layla ignored him as she slipped down and off the counter to skip to the counter on the other wall. Sherlock stepped in front of her and stood stubbornly in the way.

" You've taken away all my munchies but that wine there has no preservatives. It's allowed. So what now Sherlock?" She stepped around him and leaned against the counter.

"If you are adamant about keeping to our negotiated terms then we shall have to bide the time with an activity that is a part of our agreement." He pressed her up against the counter, pinning her with his hips. She smirked. She had been wondering how long he would pretend that he found her interesting enough to spend time with platonically. Apparently three hours was his limit. He was an addict, she was his back up drug.

All the same, this was a welcomed development. Better than suffering through another murderous match of chess. Far better. Sherlock was a_ fast_ learner. She mewled as he worked his hand beneath her bra and over her nipple grazing the side of her neck with his lips. She pressed back against him, his erection pushing against the cheek of her bottom. Her hands splayed over the counter and she leant forward onto her lower arms as Sherlock grasped her breast in his right hand and with his left inched his way over her hip, under her panties and to her already damp sex. He tweaked her bundle of nerves and held his hard warmth closer against her. She worked her hips around in a circle savoring the sensation.

"Take off your pants." His lips sent tingles through her as the brushed her ear. She complied, lifting her head up and reaching down to pull off her pants and underwear all at once. Sherlock took the hand off her breast and unzipped his trousers, keeping the other hand busy with her clit. She was panting, so close already when he withdrew his fingers and finished unbuttoning his trousers. She didn't have long to wait, his long deft fingers returned almost immediately accompanied by another appendage. He entered her slowly, holding his breath. She gasped when he pressed all the way in, he hadn't taken her from behind before and at this angle he penetrated so much deeper, it almost hurt.

"Am I hurting you?" He actually sounded concerned.

"Um. A little." She panted but shook her head fervently when he began to withdraw. "No, just give me a sec." He returned, trembling with the exertion of control and stayed still. She could feel him breathing into her hair, no, smelling her hair. He had continued softly stroking her small mound while waiting and that in combination with her realization that he was enjoying the scent of her hair sent her over the edge, she shuddered and moaned collapsing onto her forearms breathing heavily. Sherlock stopped moving completely, hesitating. She must have confused him, claiming to be in pain and then promptly orgasming. She recovered and rocked back into him, encouraging; she was more than ready for him now. He pushed her legs further apart and pulled her hips towards him leaving her completely bent over the counter then began thrusting into her with short gentle strokes. Maybe he was trying not to hurt her. He had forgotten his occupation with her clit and instead held onto her hips directing her movements. He leaned further into her practically smashing her onto the counter and picked up the pace slightly, still not using much force at all. Layla appreciated it, especially when his tender motions caught her g-spot. Her breath caught and her eyes widened as the delicious thrumming shot through her. Again, he pressed into it and she felt herself clench around him. He groaned and drove into her, harder this time. He was losing control. Another stroke and she felt like she was on fire and her mind had left her body. She was floating. No she was pressed against a counter getting fucked by Sherlock Holmes and he knew she was close, he slipped back to her bundle of nerves and pressed it between his fingers now loudly moaning into her hair. She slipped out of consciousness or at least she thought she had because when she came back to reality she was having sex with a completely different Sherlock. Layla had just _thought_ he had been losing control before. He pounded into her groaning loudly, the tips of his fingers biting into her hipbones. He had been worried about bruising before, seemed legitimate now. She would feel this in the morning. _Hell I feel this now_ she thought as her ass began to tingle with the repeated blows, his hips were narrow and sharp. She was also pretty sure he was shaking the wall, John and Ms. Vapid upstairs could probably feel every thrust.

"Ah!" She gasped, this was hurting now, no longer pleasant. She closed her eyes and held her breath. It would be over soon. She must have been whimpering louder than she thought because Sherlock pulled out of her and leaned against her gasping, his throbbing penis resting against her bottom.

"I was hurting you." He panted. Layla nodded, not trying her voice since she feared it might betray her tears.

"Turn over, I can't be gentle any longer." He spoke into her neck, laying his teeth against her skin. She was in too much pain to be aroused by the action, which was saying something. She peeled herself away from the counter and wiped her eyes quickly hoping in his state of arousal Sherlock wouldn't notice her reddened eyes. She was wrong. Even as he was, pupils masking his blue irises and his breath falling out of him in heavy pants, he saw it instantly.

"You've been crying!" He almost shouted, Layla was surprised by the rise her tears received in Sherlock's normally even speech pattern. His eyes searched her face and his hand shot down to her folds, gingerly searching inside of her. He glanced down at his hand and then back up at her his face relaxing.

Layla was shocked at his reaction and baffled by his actions. He caught her questioning glance, "You're not bleeding" he explained.

"No, doesn't mean I wasn't in pain though." She offered weakly.

"Why didn't you say something?" She shrugged without saying anything and leaned forward against his chest. He didn't move her away but on the other hand he did nothing to comfort her. Oddly, he was still erect, so he didn't feel _too_ bad, he was just surprised by her tears. When she leaned back and gingerly brought her legs together he stopped her, kneeling down as though to further investigate her. In fact, that was just what he did, inspecting her, carefully pressing two fingers inside and palpitating her abdomen. It was like going to the freaking gynecologist. She was now thoroughly unaroused, or if not thoroughly, then her next women's appointment would be disturbed by images of Sherlock.

"Nothing is torn." He emerged a few minutes later, now back to regular Sherlock, cold, calculating, uninterested in Layla. He walked away from her refastening his trousers and straightening his shirt.

"So, is that it?" She gingerly sat down in her office chair thanking God it was padded, she was aching all over.

"You can't expect me to continue."  
>"NO! I mean, you just examine me for injuries and leave?"<br>"Next time, you should mention when I'm hurting you." He turned to leave, his face more guarded than it had been for a while.

"Sherlock, wait. What was that?" She had never imagined he could lose control _that_ much. It was a bit scary actually.

"I allowed myself to get too caught up, we should stop this for a while." _NO_ she screamed inside her head as he walked swiftly to her door and she threw herself from her chair. Despite the pain of what just happened she didn't want this arrangement to stop, she didn't want Sherlock to leave her, ever. In her panic she forgot about everything aching and gasped when the dull throb came pounding back. Sherlock stopped and took the room in three strides catching her as she tottered. Layla righted herself and caught Sherlock by the arm.

"You're allowed to be a human, Sherlock." She looked up at him hiding the hurt in her voice and face. "I didn't tell you because I was letting you be human, enjoying yourself to the fullest, all that rubbish. Next time you feel the need to pound my brains out-" she paused as Sherlock's face twitched "- next time, just not from behind, you're, you're too, too much for that." She stumbled, finding herself uncharacteristically embarrassed talking to Sherlock about his size, being too big for her.

"I thought the position would be well received. It was often used with John." He was going to start his deducing schpeel again.

"Um, Sherlock, before you get going on your explanation, just think about what I just told you for a second. It's not the _position_ that was the issue per se." Sherlock leaned away from her clearly taking her meaning and cleared his throat. Layla swallowed a smile biting her lip as she watched Sherlock relish the news. She regretted it, he would be so pleased with himself. _How to distract him?_

"Oh and Sherlock?"  
>"Hmm" he directed his smugness back at her.<p>

"I didn't say I was finished with you. You should know from your research I never leave without a big finish." Layla sat back down on her chair and lowered it a few inches. She cupped his buttocks pulling Sherlock towards her. He responded instantly. She was rough with him this time, using a bit more teeth and swallowing him hard when he came, causing him to moan and jerk frantically against her mouth.

"_That_ was an outlier." He mumbled as he staggered back to her bed. He was asleep moments later, before Layla could even finish brushing her teeth. She curled up beside him, not touching but close, and pulled a blanket over herself.

_Second night actually sleeping together._ Layla was happy lying there looking at him, just looking; he may not be naked this time but it was still a pleasing site. His face was so lovely.

"Jesus." She breathed as her heart started fluttering. She was stupid, so stupid and in love with this man who couldn't even apologize for fucking her to tears.

_Boy, would he make pretty babies_, her gut hitched and warmed with arousal. Even with all the pain she had just endured she was hot with need looking at Sherlock.

And _she_ had accused _him_ of being an addict.


	9. The Accident

Life passed much the same way for the following weeks; Sherlock would be Sherlock: solve a case, bitch at John, get bitched at in return, be brought into the Yard for his involvement in his homeless network's smuggling of stolen cigarettes, come back and vent to Layla about that or a dozen other incidents, have sex, or not, and fall asleep on her bed, sometimes without her even being there. Some days he would arrive early on in the afternoon, frantic and hyperactive, raving about rakes and petroleum before dashing out, presumably to solve the case and not return until the small hours of the morning. Other days he would barge in, exhausted, grumpy, frustrated, bored or all of the above and lay her over her desk without the slightest warning. On times such as these, however, no matter how ecstatically upset he was, he never hurt her again. Layla noticed, he was careful, he never let go again. Probably because her tears disgusted him.

In either case, he often slept with Layla in her bed, not cuddling, not even touching at least not when they fell asleep, but there, solid and warm, and nearly always in the same position when Layla woke up: his lips against her hairline and his arm over her waist. But that was only when she woke up before him- there were plenty of times he left in the middle of the night or got up and used her computer early in the morning, waking her up with the clicking of her mouse or the furious tapping upon her keyboard.

Then, after a month or so, a variation on this theme became more prevalent, _he_ would summon _her_. It started one Saturday with an incessant banging. The whole house was rattling, and Layla couldn't hear herself think, so she crept up to 221B. It had been a while since she had been in the boys' place, so she was hesitant. And it was a disaster zone. Newspapers strewn everywhere, a random dressing gown decorating the couch accompanied by an assortment of tea cups and dishes on every possible surface. Layla remembered that Mrs. Hudson was away that week. She tiptoed through the flotsam of their wrecked apartment and cleared her throat, which at least stopped the banging. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, elbow deep in what looked to be a raccoon and had been hurling his foot against the floor, stomping hard enough to dislodge the wall hangings.

"Oh good, you're here. Type this in that open email." He nodded towards John's open laptop. Layla stood quietly, half in shock, half outraged. She opened and closed her mouth a couple of times, like a fish gaping out of water, before sitting down at the desk.

"You made all that noise so that I would come up here to write up and email for you?" She tried to sound offended but she really just came off extremely surprised.

"Yes, John is out and Mrs. Hudson is clearly away, so it was down to you. I've done worse, ask John." He was hunched very close over the animal carcass at this point, practically with his face in it. Suddenly he shot up, grinning and holding a small ring in a pair of surgical tweezers.

"Yes! I knew it. Are you ready?" Without an even a pause for breath he rambled out, "Arrest the husband, I found the wedding band in the animal." Layla typed it up quickly and looked up, waiting for the rest of the message.

"Are you going to explain that logic?" Sherlock glanced up at her like she had just spit up on herself.

"Isn't it obvious? The animal had the wedding band in its stomach. The only conclusion is perfectly clear."

"Um, no. Did the raccoon like to eat jewelry? No, no let me guess, the husband was smuggling his wife's belongings out of the house by feeding them to this guy," she was standing next to the table now, looking down at the raccoon, "and then _retrieving_ the valuables later and selling them!"

Sherlock laughed at her.

"A valiant effort but unfortunately, no." He held up a small bone. Layla was stared down at the bone.

"Uh, that looks like a finger bone." She scrunched up her nose and back away. It smelled terrible in there.

"Indeed, it is. A woman was reported missing six weeks ago by her employers, when her husband was interviewed he was covered in animal bites and claimed they had been attacked in the woods whilst camping. His story was accepted and the police moved on. I, however, did not buy his alibi. An assortment of his wounds were indicative of the bite pattern of _Procyon_ _lotor_ the North American raccoon, a species neither indigenous nor introduced to the British Isles. I secreted myself into his back yard and discovered a pin holding at least a dozen domesticated raccoons. The man and his wife had kept them as pets. One, however, this one, had fallen ill and died in the past week. I removed it and dissected it, finding, as you know, the wedding band of the wife which had become lodged in the animal's intestines causing internal bruising and eventually ruptures and thus death. From this and the human bones which I've found I can deduce that the man murdered his wife, cut her up and distributed her to his pets. I would expect many of the other animals to become ill soon, human bone density is too much for a mostly insectivorous creature." He stood up and placed the ring and bones into separate evidence bags and walked over to the sink, looking at Layla and holding out his hands.

Layla swallowed down the bile rising in her throat and edged over to the sink. She turned on the water and pick up the soap dispenser, pumping it gratuitously into Sherlock's cupped hands.

"That's disgusting." She hurried back over to the clean air of the living room as Sherlock scrubbed furiously at his arms, he had been wearing gloves but the gore had gotten everywhere.

"Mmm. He thought he was so clever, a problem arose, however, when the animals became accustomed to a different diet and went after their owner. Presumably they were kept inside previously, like dogs." He dried his hands off and marched over to the desk. "Have you sent it?" He peered over her shoulder and nodded. "Yes, that's fine. Send it." He picked up his phone and slouched into his arm chair, typing at break neck speed. He glanced up when he finished, "You're still here? You may return downstairs, I'll join you when the collectors have picked up the carcass." He picked up his violin and began screeching over the strings. Layla ran out of the apartment covering her ears.

Similar situations became the norm; instead of lounging around in her flat during the day, Layla often found herself upstairs performing menial tasks for Sherlock while he obsessed over a telescope, or books, or merely sat, nearly comatose, and stared at some distant point thinking. It became so regular that he even called on her when John was at home. John seemed relieved that Sherlock had found another servant and welcomed the company that Layla provided, despite their past relations. Some days Layla would be in their apartment the entire day, fixing meals and tea, even doing her own work but within reach to do whatever Sherlock needed.  
>Layla didn't particularly enjoy being Sherlock's second pair of hands but then again she didn't particularly not enjoy it. She had to admit that having another human being around her during the day was refreshing, even if he was completely unsociable, and then when John was around it was positively domestic. Layla flourished under the circumstances and she liked to think that the boys did too. If not anything else, Layla at least enjoyed the certain knowledge that John and Sherlock had two square meals a day, much better than before. Of course, John expressed his thanks, but that was no guarantee that he was excited to have her there. No matter, he was always polite and kind, even if at times he seemed confused by her presence there. Layla caught him glancing between Sherlock and herself on several separate occasions and she was fairly certain he had figured them out, but that didn't change anything and the three of them continued in this fashion, with Sherlock's nocturnal visits kept 'secret'.<p>

This situation made life much easier for Layla when she had her accident. It had happened on one of her rare outings from Baker St, when she had trudged over to the museum to exchange files and photos. On her way back, around noon, she had hopped off the bus and been promptly hit by a random driver right outside 221. She had laid in the street unconscious and bleeding for only a few moments before John and Sherlock had burst out off 221. Apparently, she had made a great deal of noise.

She woke up heavily sedated and aching everywhere sometime later that day. She didn't know where she was but she was absolutely sure that she did not want to be there. Everything hurt and she had a blistering headache.

"Ung." She groaned out and John was over her, peering into her eyes.

"Yes, her pupils are finally dilating normally. Layla, how are you feeling?" He came into focus finally. His brow was knit and he looked exhausted.

"Terble" she slurred her mouth feeling like it was stuffed with cotton. Sherlock's face hovered into her field of vision.

"She needs more hydrocodine, John. She has two broken bones and a variety of other injuries." He reached down and took her wrist, probably taking her pulse. "Her blood pressure has normalized also."

"Yes, yes, Sherlock. Now shoo." Sherlock bobbed out of sight and Layla focused back on John. "Layla, tell me where the pain is the worst."

"Leg. Headache." John nodded and moved down and out of sight, presumably to check on her leg. He came back a few seconds later, "You're femur is broken, a really painful break. It's going to be uncomfortable for a while. I set it and your collarbone onsite so it should heal fairly quickly." Layla wished John hadn't mentioned her collarbone, she could feel the dull ache swelling there. "Layla, I can give you more painkillers if you want, but not very much. You were knocked out and I need to monitor you closely." She groaned and tried to move her head around to see where she was. John tutted and re-adjusted her pillow.

"Where'm I? She closed her eyes and waited, her ears had started ringing which didn't make her head feel any better.

"You're at Baker St. The ambulance came and took you to hospital but you were classed outpatient, so I decided to bring you here to keep an eye on you." Layla sighed. At least she wasn't stuck in some sterile chamber eating dreadful food. She would just be stuck at Baker St eating dreadful food, unless Mrs. Hudson decided to cook. She could hear someone, John most likely, bustling around above her head, likely getting her next dose ready. She really hated taking medicine, she frowned at the thought of it but then her entire body throbbed and she conceded to the idea.

"Here, when you feel comfortable, you need to drink this and take the dose." John set a glass of what looked to be milk and a paper cup next to her. "Are you ready to sit up?" He leaned back over her, she nodded and he tenderly hoisted her torso, propping it up on a number of pillows. She was on the couch, Sherlock's sulking couch, and she looked a right mess. Her coat was covered with blood, her own, and her left leg was plastered up from hip to ankle. Her other leg was bandaged but just bandaged, not in a cast. She could feel the pressure around her shoulders of some kind of splint keeping them set, it was stiff and uncomfortable. She groaned as she lifted her head to take a sip of the milk, her neck was sore and her arm felt like jelly holding the tiny glass. She sipped on the milk and then tried to swallow, and nearly vomited from the exertion. John was hovering, clearly anxious and watching her with an eagle eye. He leaned over and tipped the paper cups to her lips, a pill tumbled into her parted lips and Layla washed it down with the rest of the milk before settling back on the comfy pillows.

"When you're ready, Mrs. Hudson brought up some food. We have soup and toast and some pasta and-" Sherlock cut him off,

"Oh stop fretting John and let her sleep." Layla turned her eyes across the room to look at Sherlock sitting in his chair. He put on the air of being detached and unconcerned but Layla could see he was watching her as closely or even more so that John. He met John's glare as the doctor stomped off to the kitchen and merely continued plucking his violin strings, he was playing chords from Vivaldi's _Autumn_, one of Layla's favorites. He must have remembered from that first night. She smiled and closed her eyes, she couldn't have guessed it before, but being taken care of by these two actually calmed her mind. John was an excellent doctor, and Sherlock was more than qualified to notice anything wrong. Plus, he would probably be desperate to get her back into tip top shape; for over a month now he'd hardly had to go more than two nights without sex. Now he would have to wait until her clavicle healed at least, if not her leg as well. He must have been thinking the same thing because when she opened her eyes to glance back over at him he was staring at her and twitching, keeping his tune even but the rest of him was positively vibrating.

She fell asleep before the end of _Autumn_ and was alone when she awoke again, well she thought she was at first. The lights were off and the flat quiet, but then she saw the moonlight reflecting off Sherlock's face. He was standing next to the window with his hands in his pockets gazing down at Baker St.

"I can still see the stain from your accident. The street washers couldn't rinse it away." He didn't turn to look at her and Layla was surprised he knew she was awake. "You're lucky you're alive." He took in a sharp breath and spun around and marched swiftly to the kitchen, coming back with a pastry. He sat down on the coffee table and rested the dish on her stomach. "You need to eat. John charged me with ensuring that you would when you woke up." Layla looked at the pastry, it was a danish, cherry filling by the smell. She chuckled to herself and regretted it.

"Did I break any ribs?" She winced as she felt around with her right hand.

"A few fractured ones, yes. You were hit twice by the car. The driver was travelling far too fast so you bounced off the front and flipped onto the hood then onto the ground." Layla suddenly remembered the first collision, but not the bouncing, she must have been knocked out before then. "Fortunately, you landed on your shoulder and not your head, which was cushioned by your bag." Layla silently thanked the silly messenger bag that held her books and scarf, it had saved her life.

"So where did all the blood come from?"

"You don't want to know." She took a bite of the danish and looked back at Sherlock, he was looking back out the window and she still couldn't make out his facial expression.

"Um, kinda do. It's my blood I have a right."

"Your femoral artery was ruptured by the break, if John hadn't been here you probably wouldn't have survived." Layla's mouth had gone dry and she had a hard time choking down the pastry.

"Well, I'll have to thank him then." Sherlock turned around slowly and sat down again on the coffee table.

"Are you alright?" Layla didn't look up from her pastry, she was famished but her saliva was still on vacation so she had to work pretty hard to eat it.

"Yeah, more or less. The throbbing's calmed down and my headache's finally gone. Really besides my leg and shoulder I don't have too much pain when I don't move."

"Did you see the driver?"

"What?" Layla didn't realize it had been a hit and run. She was surprised. "Um, no. I can't believe they didn't stop!" Sherlock stood up and started pacing.

"No one on the scene got the number. He, she, whoever drove off too fast and everyone was focused on you." He sounded frustrated.

"Oh, well shame on them for being concerned over the blood! Frankly, I prefer it this way. My near-murderer can continue being anonymous for all I care, as long as I'm going to recover." Sherlock stalked back over to her and took the plate from her chest.

"_I_ would be happier if both could have been accomplished." He strode to the kitchen and returned with two cups of tea. He set one down on the table and held the other out to her.

"Two, milk?" She took it carefully in her right hand and set it down on her stomach, lifting the cup to her lips. It was perfect. Warm and perfect, she needed the tea.

"What time is it?"  
>"Half past two."<br>"Good lord, what are you doing awake?"  
>"I already told you, I promised John I would feed you. Besides I couldn't sleep. Too much to think about."<br>"Please don't tell me you think there is something suspicious about this. I stepped out of the bus without looking carefully and the driver was going too fast, probably texting or something. They drove off out of panic and guilt probably and didn't look back. Nothing strange there, it happens all the time." She wasn't exactly certain, but she didn't want to think about the situation anymore much less have Sherlock obsessing over it indefinitely.

"Hmm. Either way they should be held accountable. I'll have to ask Mycroft to check CCTV, it was a difficult angle with the double-decker, but perhaps the camera on the adjacent corner caught it." He picked up his phone and moved over to his computer, or John's, or maybe even her own, he treated them all like his own. "I gave you decaf, so you should try to go back to sleep as soon as your finished." He typed away for a few minutes and then marched back to his room. "Goodnight, Layla." He muttered and shut the door.

When she woke up the next morning both men were seated in the living room reading, John, in his robe, his newspaper and Sherlock, fully dressed, some tiny book, probably on something obscure like phrenology or the history of double-decker buses. When they heard her rustling they both hopped to attention, well John did, Sherlock lowered his book, looked her over and returned to reading. John, on the other hand, moved into the kitchen and gathered a tray, probably from Mrs. Hudson, setting it down over her on the couch. Toast and tea, Layla couldn't have asked for better. She tucked in, thanking John briefly. He nodded and moved back over to his chair and thinking better of it, sat on the coffee table, helping Layla negotiate her breakfast with just one hand.

"Would you like to sit up further today?" He pulled another cushion off his chair and held it ready. Layla nodded vigorously as she munched on her toast. He helped her lean forward and nestled the cushion behind her. She felt much better sitting up.

"When you're ready, Molly said she'd come over and… help you get cleaned up and stuff." He seemed a bit embarrassed for all of them, which was hilarious to Layla since the two of them had seen her naked on multiple occasions, but were nervous about helping her to shower. No matter, having Molly's help wouldn't be too bad, they could chat and Molly could wash her hair, properly.

"That's great. For now, I could use a trip, you know, to the toilet. How do I get around?" John looked angrily at Sherlock who didn't look up from his book before turning an apologetic look on Layla.

"Sorry, no chair. Sherlock simply refused, he claimed you wouldn't need it upstairs, so we'll be helping you hobble around until you're well enough to use a crutch on your own. Do you want to try and get up now?" She nodded and John took the tray and then helped her swing her casted leg off the couch. "Sherlock, a little help." He called over at Sherlock, who looked as unconcerned as possible. Sherlock promptly stood up and walked over dropping his book on his chair. The look on his face was unreadable, irritated, uncomfortable, upset, Layla couldn't tell. He stooped down and slipped a hand beneath her bottom and held her right hand in his own. With John in a similar position they stood her up. She hesitated at first, looking to John for assistance but since Sherlock was on her uninjured side she was forced to lean against him. He was duly gentle with her and accommodating, walking her slowly to his own bathroom.

"Can you manage from here?" He asked when she had reached the toilet. She hadn't realized before but she was in a night gown without underwear, so little was left to her beside sitting down and peeing.

"Yes, thank you." She smiled at him and Sherlock quickly retreated, closing the door behind him.

"I'll be out here when you need help standing back up." She felt a little nervous that he would hear her peeing but she needed to desperately, so she lowered herself to the seat and winced, the porcelain was cold.

A couple minutes later she was stuck, she tried feverishly to hoist herself off the seat, she really didn't want Sherlock to have to remove her from the toilet, she would _never_ be sexy again after that. However, with two limbs out of commission, it was nearly impossible. That was until she realized she could reach the towel rack in front of her, so using that she pulled herself up with her right leg and called out for Sherlock before she completely lost her balanced. He made it just in time and caught her hopping on one foot towards the door.

"Resenting your lack of independence?" He steadied her and looped his arm about her waist before walking her out of his bathroom. He stopped and set her on his bed and moved over to his wardrobe.

"Um, yes and what are you doing, I should get back out there, I think Molly may be on her way over."

"Yes, but for the next few days you need a proper dressing gown, I can't stand to see you in that horrendous shift a moment longer. Drop it." He came back over to her holding a black silk robe, one she hadn't seen before.

"I appreciate it, Sherlock, but I'm not wearing anything under this and, you know, I can't take this off with just one hand." She waved down at the gown, it was hideous and she had no idea where it had come from.

"Indeed." He walked over and quickly pulled it off her he stood back to look her over and Layla felt herself blushing. She felt filthy and horribly ugly with her cast and brace and all the bruising. Glancing behind Sherlock she found John gawking in the door frame. She had no idea how long he had been standing there, long enough it looked. Sherlock studied her face and then turned around.

"Hello, John. You could close your mouth and make yourself useful instead of ogling Layla. It isn't as though you haven't seen her naked before." John quickly regained his voice.

"Sherlock! What ARE you doing?" He bustled into the room and tossed the robe over Layla's nakedness so that it just kind of slid off her and onto the floor. Sherlock scooped it up and placed it about Layla's shoulders helping her good arm into the sleeve and leaving the other resting over her brace. He bent over and cinched up the tie, covering her breasts and genitals.

"I'm helping Layla change out of that terrible sack she was in. I performed a visual check, her ribs are bruising more darkly than I would have hoped but her other contusions are proving slighter. " He stood up and looked over his work while John continued to gape at him.

"Sherlock, you can't just strip her clothes off and then look her over. That's so close to sexual assault it's not even excusable for someone like you!" Sherlock narrowed his eyes but didn't turn to face John. Layla looked between the two of them and decided to break the tension.

"Sorry to interrupt the two of you staring at me competitively but can I get some help, I'd like to bathe in my own bath when Molly gets here." Layla flailed about again trying to wiggle of the bed. Her attempts were aided by both men swooping down to lift her up, which ended in an awkward combination of being held in Sherlock's arms and being groped by John, accidently. Not really what she expected.

"I have her John, if you could collect her things we can move her down to her apartment."

Layla couldn't believe Sherlock was holding her, in the air, with his arms and stuff. It hardly seemed as though it was difficult for him, despite his not so bulky form, but he was a boxer. If she hadn't been in so much pain and so exhausted Layla would've loved this.

"Sherlock" John whispered looking confused and shifting his eyes from Layla to Sherlock's face.

"No need to worry, John. She's manageably heavy and I believe she is comfortable for now."  
>"Fine, but… later." He sighed clearly exasperated and picked up Layla's clothes before marching downstairs.<p>

"I think he knows Sherlock." Layla looked up and caught Sherlock grinning wickedly.

"I agree. And he's none too pleased." He met her eyes and then carried her down the stairs.

Layla's bath was awkward and painful but absolutely necessary. Molly had helped as well as she could, but the two women were not exactly fast friends and Layla was feeling particularly exposed that day. Molly had arrived while Layla was still cradled in Sherlock's arms, her robed body not stiffly held out at a distance, but embraced and carefully supported. Molly had seen, she had calculated, she had gaped. She, however, had had the self-control to not mention it. Was it self-control or shock? Layla couldn't tell, she could only gather that Molly was aware that something was happening between Layla and her brooding upstairs neighbor. This was further evidenced by Sherlock's stubborn refusal to leave until he had personally set Layla into her bath water. This included holding her naked body in his bare arms. Molly had unabashedly stared as Sherlock rolled his shirt sleeves up and systematically removed the only scrap of clothing concealing Layla's nakedness. Molly had silently hung up what she no doubt observed was Sherlock's dressing gown on the back of the door for Layla to put on after her bath. Molly had gazed, doe-eyed and hushed, at Sherlock as he left the bathroom and Layla had tried to adjust her left appendages so as not to get wet. Molly had only spoken or moved after Layla nearly drowned. She had slipped down beneath the water while reaching for soap and was unable to pull herself up with only half her body at her disposal. Molly helped her out and took the soap, scrubbing Layla's back and then handing it back for Layla to wash her front side. She asked if Layla was comfortable when she set about washing her hair and mechanically supplied casual comments when Layla tried to initiate conversation about her work, the weather, anything to break the unbearable silence. Molly had abruptly left once Layla's hair had been rinsed to fetch Sherlock, and didn't return. Layla had nodded sadly and accepted the fact that she had lost her only chance at a friend.

Layla devised a system of plastic wrap and handles to allow her to shower on her own from then on. This entailed using Sherlock's bathroom, not that this was unusual as she spent all her time in the upstairs flat, but every time she stepped into his shower she felt special. She was pretty sure she was the only person besides Sherlock to use the facility. Her constant presence in the flat also had other repercussions. Like sleeping in Sherlock's bed. It was large enough for the two of them to sleep without disturbing her casts and didn't require Sherlock hauling her up and down the stairs twice a day. It also didn't require Sherlock to come barging into her flat at odd hours of the night to make sure she wasn't bleeding everywhere. Her leg wound had reopened several times inside her cast and John had been forced to apply a suture inside a removable cast. This was convenient for showers as she could remove the cast but also excruciatingly painful. In exchange for maneuverability Layla suffered through a lack of support.

John was very displeased with the entire situation, and he voiced it often. He was upset that the surgeon had so carelessly applied the deep tissue stitches. He was upset that the bus hadn't pulled entirely to the curb. He was upset that Sherlock had no regard for Layla's privacy. He was upset that Sherlock was fucking his ex. He never mentioned that last bit, but Layla could see it every so often in his eyes, whenever he glared at Sherlock over some insensitive comment or invasive action. When Layla was around, and conscious, John tried to keep Sherlock as close to a mindful gentleman as possible. He constantly failed. Sherlock was never aggressively heedless of Layla or her modesty but now that he knew that John knew, he stopped hiding what little intimacy he had acquired with Layla.

The openness of it all and the ensuing domesticity made Layla's fragile psyche incredibly vulnerable to flights of fancy. She would wake up and see Sherlock, she would go to sleep looking at Sherlock and she would spend nearly all the time in between with Sherlock in her sights. All this time for observation allowed for Layla to become truly and properly infatuated with him. His intensity in caring for people he didn't want to admit to even noticing, the way he interacted with John in an off-handed affectionate way and the devotion he showed to putting things right despite his adamant assertions that he couldn't be bothered with a moral agenda. He was a far better human being than anyone gave him credit for, himself included. He just didn't want other people to realize this. Layla knew that John had realized it long ago, but John had the good sense to continue pretending he hadn't, a tactic Layla could have profited from. Sherlock's reaction was none too welcoming when Layla brought this fact to his attention one afternoon. Sherlock had resumed his cases after Layla had become accustomed to hobbling about with a single crutch and returned from collecting whatever it was he normally collected to find Layla reading one of his books on anatomy, a subject she knew very little on. She pulled herself from his chair when he burst into the apartment and limped over to the couch, out of his way. He paid her no mind and sat down to think, presumably, flipping the pages of the book rhythmically. Layla sat quietly for a few minutes appraising him. He looked peeved, probably something to do with John. They had left together on this errand and here he was without his dear doctor. The two of them must have had a row, nothing unusual Layla had recently learned.

"He'll get over it. He cares about you, just as you do him." She didn't really know why she had spoken, it had just sort of come out. Sherlock shot a warning look at her and set the book on the desk before marching into the kitchen and sitting at his microscope.

"What happened? Maybe I can help." She shouted at him from her perch on the couch.

"I am unaware of what you are referring to." Good stock response. Automatic and cold. Layla waited a few minutes before laboriously pushing herself out of the couch and slowly making her way over to the fridge, on the pretense of procuring a snack and then lingering next to the counter. She stared at him until he, fed up, pushed away from the microscope and snapped at her.

"What is it that you want?" He glared at her as she munched on a carrot.

"Oh, nothing. Just eating my carrot."  
>"Why is it then that you are staring at me with that idiotic expression on your face." Layla was unphased, his abuse was expected and unoriginal, he didn't mean anything by it besides, it was a defense mechanism. She smiled innocently and continued working on her carrot. He narrowed his eyes and sat forward in his chair, expecting an answer.<p>

"No reason, I was watching you work. Nothing strange there." She shrugged and fluttered her eyelashes. Sherlock studied her and leaned even further forward, elbows on his knees, palms pressed together and resting against his chin. He lowered his gaze and breathed deeply before snapping out,

"John does not approve of my interactions with you." Layla knew that already, so did Sherlock. It was nothing new, so she stood waiting, ignoring the aching in her left leg. "He seems to think that your affections are greater than our arrangement would permit and that by pursuing this course of action I am a 'complete arse.'" He snorted and stood up to begin pacing the kitchen, hands folded behind his back. He stopped in front of her, far closer than required for normal conversation, then again conversation with Sherlock was never _normal_.

"Do you find your affections to be a danger?" Layla squirmed back from him, wincing at the pain in her leg.

"No." She couldn't manage a more elaborate answer while her leg was shooting with pain.

"Good." Sherlock put his arm around her and helped her back to his arm chair. She sat down with a sigh as Sherlock checked her leg for bleeding, his dexterous fingers gracefully undoing the binding and running over her bare flesh. She was fine, John's latest stitching had been good, solid work and was holding fast.

"Would you like to try a dose of hydracodine?" Sherlock strode into the kitchen and grabbed the nearly full bottle, Layla had resisted taking the pain medicine after the first day since she so despised being foggy-headed. He shook the bottle of pills and looked at her questioningly. The pain was bad, Sherlock clearly could see it in her face, so she regretfully took the bottle and twisted the top off with her teeth, earning a tweak of Sherlock's lips. She took two pills and sat back waiting for the pain to cease.

It did, along with all her mental faculties. She couldn't really remember the next few hours but there were certain snippets of conversation that shone forth from the haze of her high. At one point she found herself drooling over the arm of the chair staring at the fire playing in the hearth. The next, she realized she was talking, to Sherlock, whom see couldn't see at that moment, but who was responding to her with his distinctive baritone.

"You're so pretty." She mumbled out and started giggling.

"You're so high." Sherlock mocked her and chuckled.

"No, but sersly," she was slurring now, "you're so sexy. You're all fit and shit." Her head lolled to the side and finally caught sight of Sherlock. He was sitting on the couch watching her, smiling, genuinely smiling, at her ramblings.

"I'm glad you think so, it certainly makes our situation easier for you, I'm sure." He nodded and spread his hands in mock seriousness.

"Ya know'at makes this sitition easer for me? How much I fuckin love you." She closed her eyes and leaned her head back.

"You don't though," Sherlock was very close now, barely whispering, "you couldn't. I do not possess qualities that anyone would register as loveable." His cold hands readjusted her gown and pushed the hair from her face. She smiled and fluttered her eyes open. He had moved away by the time her eyes refocused and was once again seated, now in John's chair.

"Not true. You're great. Very loveable. Just secretly." She was making less and less sense, but as she looked at Sherlock she could see his sadness. Not open and vulnerable emotion, just a scrunching around his eyes and a slight pursing of his lips, but after all their time together even her muddled mind could read the signs.

"Sherrock, you're a good man." She slurred out and nodded ponderously. He rose from his chair and gathered up the pill bottle, looking menacingly at it, clearly perturbed at the medicine's loosing of Layla's lips.

"That is enough of this." He tossed the bottle in the air and shoved it in his trouser pocket. "Forever."


	10. The Brother

"HOLY MARY MOTHER OF CHRIST!" Layla say bolt upright in her bed, no, Sherlock's bed, as the dull memories of the previous night flashed through her slowly waking brain.

"Either you just had a spiritual revelation or you remembered the confessions you made last night." Sherlock's voice rang out beside her and Layla nearly jumped out of her skin. She hadn't sensed him next to her and the sun was already shining brightly outside, he normally would have already been up and out of bed.

"Oh good, you're here to revel in my embarrassment." That came out more bitterly than she had intended and she swiveled around to look at him. He was lying supine with his hands folded on his chest, completely naked. "Um, where are your clothes? Did, did something weird happen that I don't remember?" She was nervous, she didn't like not remembering.

"Not necessarily." He sounded smug, or thoroughly amused.

"How do you mean _not necessarily_?" Layla could feel her blood pressure rising.

"You asked."

"I ASKED?" She flung her body all the way around to face Sherlock disregarding her cast and all its itchy discomfort. Sherlock pulled a mock regretful smile and nodded.

"How, what, what did I ask exactly?" Layla could feel herself blushing. She just thought she had embarrassed before, this was unimaginably worse.

"You were completely convinced that my skin would melt if I kept my clothes on, so I obliged." Sherlock blinked innocently as he looked up at her. Layla was now officially aflame beneath her skin, first she had told him he was sexy, then that she loved him and finally she had begged him to take his clothes off.

"Pitiful." She muttered.

"Mmmm, maybe not. Extremely intoxicated, absolutely." He sat up and picked up the bottle of pills from the bedside table and looked at the label, "how many did you take?"

"Two."

"That would be the problem." He handed the bottle to Layla. She read the prescription line, _take one pill every four to six hours_; she had taken too much and suffered for it.

"Anything else I should know about?" She looked sheepishly at Sherlock who calmly held her gaze.

"Besides the drooling, declarations of love and the begging for nudity? No, except for the very sloppy oral sex you attempted."

"You've got to be kidding me" she groaned and buried her face in her hands. She would never, _never_, take narcotics again.

"Uh, no. But you did pass out after I dislodged you, which prevented you from shaming yourself further." He stretched briefly, tensing his long lean limbs before rolling off the bed and padding to his wardrobe. Layla watched as he got dressed. He caught her watching, "don't be concerned, I can assure you that _these _clothes won't make my skin melt."

Layla shut her eyes and shook her head. _Drug are bad, don't do drugs. Not even if they're prescribed to you, they make everything seem like a good idea, and it never ever is._

"By the way," Sherlock interrupted her internal castigation, "I do plan on holding you to your word to, what was it? Ah, yes, 'blow me 'til my giant brain goes blank.'" He walked past her and left the room, shutting the door tightly behind him.

"Well at least I'm not the only one missing it," she muttered to herself and stumbled from the bed to the bathroom.

Later that evening, Sherlock walked Layla in his bedroom and closed the door, presumably to help her to bed in privacy. She sat down on the bed and looked at Sherlock inquisitively. She wasn't quite sure why Sherlock insisted upon escorting her to bed while John was waiting to have a conversation with him in the sitting room. He barely wasted a second unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning his trousers in one swift flurry of motions. Layla inhaled shakily, anticipation building in the pit of her stomach. It had been nearly two weeks since there had been any sort of sexual congress between them and, although she didn't know about Sherlock, she was more than desperate for it. The mere thought of wrapping her lips around his glorious cock made her mouth water and her sex moisten. She wanted it, needed it. Her injuries wouldn't allow it, so she would settle with tasting him.

By the time he removed his pants, Layla was pretty sure Sherlock was acutely aware of how long it had been. He was gratuitously aroused. She licked her lips but hesitated, contemplating whether or not she could manually work herself without Sherlock noticing_. Fuck it_, Layla decided she didn't care but then remembered she only had one useable hand. So, she leant forward, placed her right hand delicately on Sherlock's hip bone and ran the tip of her tongue along the head of his penis. He shivered and rested his hand on her head. She snaked her tongue further down and along his shaft, nuzzling his curls and his base and then returning back up his length. He was twitching, jerking and pulling her head forward gently, urging her to take him in. She held out, pressing her thumbnail into his skin and relishing the hiss that elicited. She had fallen into habit when it came to oral sex, a pattern that she knew he enjoyed, and she was picking back up on it now when she suddenly decided to switch things up. Grabbing him by his backside, she pulled Sherlock forward and then slid lower on the bed turning her body to the side in the process. She moved her hand quickly from his bum to his cock and held on working up and down sharply as she ran her tongue up the center vein of his testicles. Sherlock gasped and then growled lasciviously, his testicles clenching with arousal. She pulled more enthusiastically and ran her thumb over the tip of his cock while continuing to tongue his sack. Sherlock's breath quickened and became more ragged, his entire body heaving with her jerking. When she felt his body stiffening, Layla released him from her grasped and leaned back, leaving him wide eyes and panting. She waited a few moments allowing him to recede back from the edge of climax and then took him fully into her mouth. It required only a couple of moments of suction and few quick flicks of her tongue to leave Sherlock shuddering above her and gasping for air.

"I hope that that was better than my sloppy attempt last night." Layla wiped her mouth and sat back on the bed.

"Indeed," Sherlock purred next to her. He had collapsed onto the bed and lay there with his eyes closed. Layla dared to sneak a hand over his pubic hair up the dark line of curls and across his lower abdomen, enjoying the trail of gooseflesh that followed. She left her hand beneath his shirt tracing swirling patterns across his smooth skin with her index finger and watched his penis stir again. She didn't think anything could come of this, she was basically untouchable, what with her entire left side out of commission, and her throat was more than exhausted from the proceeding encounter but the sight of his erection stimulated by her was exciting, so she kept at it.

"Stand up." Sherlock sounded a bit dangerous, like it was more of a threat than a command. Layla carefully obliged, allowing her hand to linger on his cock in the process. It twitched towards her touch and Layla tingled with need.

"Turn around." Layla turned to face away from Sherlock and stood awaiting the next instruction. It never came, instead Layla felt the dressing gown she had on perpetually wrenched from her and Sherlock's long hands wrap around her hips. He gently pulled her backwards towards him, stopping when the backs of her knees rest against the edge of the bed. Layla jumped when Sherlock ran a single finger from the back of her sex, wet with desire, up to the tiny mound of nerves. She bit her lip and mewled softly as he stroked it again, this was what she had been wanting, and it felt like perfection. The room already smelled of their act, stirring Layla even further as she pushed against Sherlock's hand. It retreated too soon, leaving Layla cold and frenzied with need.

"Sher-" she began, but was silenced by the tug backwards. She felt herself lose balance and nearly tumble back onto Sherlock, but he caught her, resting his hands beneath her bottom and letting them slide up onto the sides of her hips. He held her there hovering above his lap. She could feel the heat of his erection mere centimeters away from her sex and her legs trembled on either side of his in anticipation.

Finally, he lowered her down onto him, sheathing himself in her and allowing her to rest on his lap. She groaned at the sensation of fullness, he was deep inside of her, and this angle always seemed to give her trouble. But she wanted this badly and started rocking forward on his lap swallowing the moans that bubbled up her throat. Sherlock moved his hands higher around her waist and coaxed her up his shaft. Layla relaxed as his length slid out of her but welcomed the pressure as he lowered her onto him again, he touched the button of secret nerves inside of her again and she shivered deliciously. She snaked her free hand down and lingered above her tingling nub, unsure how Sherlock would react.

"Do it." Sherlock's voice rasped next to her ear, low and rolling. She slid her hand down the last inch or so and squirmed with delight. In combination with Sherlock bumping intermittedly against her inner pleasure point, Layla's stroking and flicking quickly sent her over the edge, convulsing with ecstasy and melting around Sherlock. He lunged upward hard one final time before emptying himself inside her and resting his face in her hair, exhausted.

"Exquisite." He velvet voice rumbled out behind her, sending shivers down her spine.

"I'm glad you thought so as well, I was worried my crippled status would put you off."

"Clearly." Sherlock's voice was huskier than Layla had ever heard it as he lifted her off his lap and onto the bed next to him. Apparently he had missed it just as much as Layla had, which was far too much. It was a few seconds before Layla caught onto Sherlock's slight insult.

"Wait, my injuries put you off? Or you knew I was worried about it?" Sherlock looked over at her disappointedly and then looked her up and down, slowly. Layla could feel herself shrinking from his eyes, trying to cover up her bruises and the way her skin tended to peak over her cast and brace, not flattering that.

"You have been incomparably self conscious since your accident, hiding yourself in loose-fitting clothing and avoiding my eye contact. I naturally assumed you were ashamed of the state of your appearance, unnecessarily so. A small degree of atrophy is to be expected with any serious injury, especially one that would impede mobility. Nevertheless, I gave you your space to recover your confidence and health, no doubt sexual congress is risky so soon in the healing process, however, despite your own certainty, I found your state to be negligibly 'off-putting.' You have retained all the required components," Sherlock's eyes found their way to Layla's breasts and waist before lingering on her lower regions, "although your level of personal grooming _has_ fallen slack." A tiny hint of a smile wrinkled around his eyes and Layla rolled her own, moving to cross her right leg but wincing because of the pressure on her left thigh. "Please, don't try to hide it. You'll only hurt yourself, and then I'll have to care for you even longer." Layla snorted softly and twiddled with the sheets, trying to think of something to say. Sherlock anticipated her, "Don't be alarmed. You've only been a slight inconvenience."

"Good to know." She leaned back slowly, attempting to lie down, "you will tell me when I become too big of an inconvenience. I simply can't stand to be a hassle." Once again, Layla was trying to play off Sherlock's back-handed compliment with aplomb. She didn't even convince herself, it was clear Sherlock's lack of attention to her feelings hurt her.

Sherlock lightly held her about her ribs and settled her on her accustomed pillow.

"Layla, you may feel certain that my regard for your feelings is little to none, and while a month ago I would have whole-heartedly endorsed that approach, I can honestly inform you that your emotions do register as important, and I do attempt to tread lightly around them. Our situation would hardly be manageable if I did otherwise, thankfully for you and me, you are fairly resilient to my particular brand of insensitivity, usually." He ended his longwinded version of an apology and covered her with the duvet before standing up to get dressed.

"You're the one who suggested the dressing gown." Layla muttered, still sulking a bit from the sting of Sherlock's honesty.

"I hardly mind seeing you in my clothing on occasion, it is when the robe becomes the only thing you wear that it becomes tiring. I can hardly see the shape of you beneath it. Too much material."He waved his hand in disgust and scooped the dressing gown off the floor and tossing it out of sight. Layla guessed she had just lost her favorite lounging garb. It had been nice while it lasted.

"You should rest for a stretch." Sherlock stopped her stirring with a glance. "You'll be weary after such an exertion now that you've been entirely sedentary for so long. You're body will need more time to recover."

Layla nestled deeper into her pillow and watched Sherlock get dressed.

"I have a case to attend to today, I will be out… indefinitely. If you need something just shout for John. He returned last night after you passed out, and will not be accompanying me today. Still peeved." He wrinkled his nose and shrugged into his suit jacket.

"You may wear this for the day." He opened a drawer and pulled out a cotton sundress Layla hadn't worn for a good year and tossed it on the bed. No bra, no panties. She could hardly wear a bra with her shoulder and it would be mighty difficult to pull underwear on by herself, so it made sense. It would just be awkward being so exposed around John all day. She looked up to find Sherlock smirking at her as she made her deduction.

"For convenience." He let his face fall blank as he strode out into the living room, hiding all evidence of their interactions and his plotting.

"Are you OK?" John blurted out a few hours later as the two of them sat in tense silence in the sitting room. "I mean, is he, you know, treating you alright. Being courteous, hell I'm talking about Sherlock. He hasn't hurt you yet, has he?" John's face was knotted with concern, and perhaps also disgust. She had been with him first.

Layla made eye contact with him for the first time in weeks, properly, and gave him a small smile, partially guilty but also reassuring.

"Yeah, John. Thanks, he's actually a good deal better at being human than we give him credit for. In fact, just this morning, he almost apologized." They shared an easy laugh and then sat hushed for a few moments.

"I'm sorry John." His head jerked up and tilted to the side, betraying his confusion.

"I'm sorry for before," Layla began to explain, "when I just left our happy little relationship to die." John's eyebrows shot you his hairline, he was uncomfortable with this conversation. Too bad for him, Layla needed to get this off her chest. "I really did like you John, a lot. But I was using you. You are sweet and considerate and a fantastic person and I took advantage of that. I'm sorry. Then I just abandoned you after I had doubts and then that strange incident with the cult, I just-"

"I'm going to stop you there, Layla." John looked perfectly terrified, probably sensing that Layla was going to start relating what happened between her and Sherlock. "I'm fine with it, all of it. You're a grown woman and you made your decision. I can't say I understand it, but I suppose, on some level, it has worked out for the best. He… he, Sherlock needed this, whatever it is you mean to him. So, no apology necessary, just as long as you don't let him hurt you, you are too good for him. Know that." He pursed his lips grimly and hoisted himself from his armchair, "Tea?" He was trying to put an end to the very discussion he had started, and Layla supposed she might as well let him, she had said practically everything she wanted.

"Thanks, for everything John." He smiled at her and fixed up the kettle leaving Layla to return to her book, her third book for the week. It was Tuesday. She was dying of boredom locked up in this flat.

"Um, John? Before you start the tea, do you think we could maybe go out for some? I'm really tired of being up here." John turned away from the stove and took in Layla's state, a doctor's survey only. He frowned softly and walked over to help her off the couch.

"Well, we can. It's just, erm, you're not dressed quite… seasonably." Layla looked down at the dress she had slipped into: light blue strapless with a black empire waist sash that hit below the knee; comfortable but a bit exposed for early spring in London. Well, far too exposed, she would freeze.

"Ah, I think I've a looser coat downstairs. I could just drape it over my left arm."  
>"Actually, it's been over two weeks, I think we can just put your arm in a sling." John hurried back to the kitchen and pulled out a quick medic bag and with it a sling. He came back grinning and set her arm in the cloth before loosening her brace. It was a bit big so he adjusted it bustling around checking the fit and the shape of her collar. "It looks really well, Layla." He helped her swivel some motion into her shoulder. It was stiff and her collarbone and surrounding tendons etc felt tight, but having the brace off was an absolute relief. "Now we can just slip this off to put your coat on and off. Let's go retrieve it. Your crutch." John handed Layla her single crutch and gestured towards the door following her down.<p>

The two of them actually had a nice supper and returned to Baker St to enjoy some telly before Sherlock returned far into the evening. He took one look at the two of them amicably watching trashy TV and practically snarled "We'll have a visitor." He stormed into his room and slammed the door.

"Do you know what that was about?" Layla shot a perplexed glance at John who just shrugged. She sighed and extracted herself from Sherlock's chair. "I'll go check."

She knocked softly and waited, either he was just in a mood from his day or he was possibly feeling jealous. The door was wrenched open by an absolutely incensed Sherlock. He was clearly not happy with something, maybe her, as he glared down at her, his lips twitching, but not with a smile.

"Had a lovely afternoon? Talked about me, did you?" His lip curled as he looked up at John then back at Layla narrowing his eyes menacingly.

"Ah, yes, in fact. The two of us _can_ be friends Sherlock."

"You smell of him" he sniffed haughtily and took a step back lifting his chin away from her like she had rolled in something off.

"Green doesn't suit you, Sherlock." John piped up from the living room. "You _know_ it was innocent, just an afternoon as friends. Use your amazing skills of deduction!"

Layla pinched the bridge of her nose, John wasn't helping with his teasing. But Sherlock did step aside, seemingly allowing Layla to come inside. She stepped in and limped over to the bed.

"It was about time John realized you were ready for a sling. I would've had you in it three days ago." His tone had softened but he was still bristling at John's apparent intrusion upon his territory.

Layla was about to point out that Sherlock could have suggested it but thought better of it, he was clearly still on edge, defensive or jealous or something else, she couldn't tell.

"You sure are mercurial sometimes. What is wrong, really wrong? Like John said, you knew nothing happened as soon as you walked in, you can see everything, there was no evidence to suggest your conclusion. So, what is it?" Sherlock returned to what he was doing before Layla interrupted, rifling through his wardrobe, tossing clothes everywhere.

"Mycroft." He held up a shirt and then threw it aside.

"My- oh, your brother?" She was genuinely curious now. What could the mysterious brother want? "Is he actually coming here? Is it serious?"

"He seems to be concerned with our arrangement. He is coming to speak with you." Sherlock held up another shirt and stopped digging. "Here, put this on. And the pajama bottoms." He nodded towards the pair lying on the bed. Sherlock knitted her brow but didn't move to change her clothes. She wanted an explanation for Sherlock's sudden interest in her apparel.

"And why can't I wear this?"

"Too revealing."  
>"Too- are you concerned that I'll, oh never mind." She stood up exasperated and untied her dress.<p>

"Mycroft needn't see so much of you." He grinned at her, his mask of anger shattering, and stayed her hand. "I shouldn't have selected such an outfit for a day I was away." He stood back and appraised the dress. "You'll have to wear it again sometime soon, but not in front of my brother, John enjoying it all day was insult enough."  
>"If you say so. I didn't think you were the jealous type." Layla resumed her attempt to remove the dress, stepping out of it and standing completely nude before Sherlock.<p>

"I am not jealous. I am merely side-stepping the uncomfortable situation we would find ourselves in should Mycroft find you to be anything other than plain." He rolled his eyes at her offended expression. "Oh, you know what I mean, now wipe off your make up and muss up your hair. You still look far too nice."

"Shall I put on clothes or get ugly first?" Layla set her jaw and set her hand on her hip.

"Stop being this way. You are being uncharacteristically touchy, what is- no, never mind. Put this on first." Sherlock held up one of his button downs after unfastening her sling. Layla held her arms out carefully allowing him to lightly set the shirt on her bare shoulders. With her sling repositioned, Sherlock set to buttoning the shirt up and Layla watched still fascinated at the dexterity of his swift working fingers. He helped her into his pajama bottoms without making eye contact with her, that curious expression set on his face again. She'd seen it before, but couldn't remember when. He stood back up running his hands along her hips and waist finally settling about her breasts. "The pound you've put on since your accident is well placed." His lip curled with impish joy and then suddenly snapped back into his icy mask. "Quick, wash your face." He disarranged her hair and patted her bottom towards the bathroom, "he's here. We have a minute before he's inside and I want you waiting in the sitting room." He hustled her to the sink and hurried her through the paces of rinsing off her makeup. Practically carrying her, Sherlock hauled her out into the living room and set her onto the couch milliseconds before a knock resounded on the front door.

"It's open." John shouted, earning him a frigid glare from Sherlock, who set his bow to his violin and promptly filled the apartment with a strand of one of Brahms' violin concertos.

"Hmm, Brahms' D major. Sherlock must like you, Layla McManis." The man who stepped through the door was even taller than Sherlock, and a good seven or eight years older, maybe more. He had that same Holmes look though, he scanned Layla with one swift glance and knew her entire life's story it seemed.

"Really you needn't have changed, the sundress suited you quite well," Sherlock stopped playing and swung around to glare at his brother "although, the dress itself isn't really your preferred ensemble is it? What is it they call it back _home_? Jeans and a cardigan are the favorite, are they not?" Layla's eyes widened, she hadn't worn such a frumpy outfit since she'd been there, first it didn't ship in and then Sherlock would've mocked her. How did this guy know, maybe Henry?

"Oh, come off it Mycroft." John piped up and Layla was shocked, this man was intimidating, seriously intimidating and John just shrugged him off. "You researched her, why?"

"I have my reasons Dr. Watson." He used a title, trying to maintain the authoritative air. Layla relaxed a little and sunk back into the cushions of the couch, keeping an eye on Sherlock. He was frozen on the spot staring at his brother. Waiting for his next move? Furious?

"Although the dress exposed more skin, your choice in this ensemble is infinitely more telling, Sherlock. Claiming your property?" He sneered at Sherlock, that same sneer Layla had been the victim of from the younger Holmes. "I'm impressed with you Ms. McManis. The first woman to conquer my brother and he's become so attached he feels the need to mark you as his own, what is it about you exactly?" The sneer was now directed towards her, it's effect on Layla was different, however. Fear for shame and anxiety for insecurity. She wriggled in Sherlock's clothes, wishing she were in her favorite jeans and cardigan now, her own person and not some pawn in the Holmes boys' drama again.

"Really, leave her, she's been in a serious accident recently, as I'm sure you know, and exhausted." John was standing up for her while Sherlock glared at his brother, lips tightly pressed together.

"I, I'm fine John, thanks." She stuttered smiling softly at John. "I think, Mr. Holmes, you know better than I the answer to that question." She straightened her back as well as she could with her slung up shoulder and met the elder Holmes's eye, holding eye contact confidently. The sneer melted into an intrigued smile as she stared him down.

"Ah, I see. Well, _Layla_, might I have a chat with you then on this subject, in private?"

"No." Sherlock broke his silence and took a step forward closing the distance between himself and Layla, making him the closer of the two men.

"_Sherlock_." Mycroft lifted his brow and gave his brother an imperious glare. Sherlock squinted at his brother and then picked the tune back up where he left off making Layla's ears ring. Mycroft gestured towards the door, "shall we? I believe you live downstairs."

"I'd think a woman of your talents and intelligence would have left my brother by now." Mycroft leaned back in Layla's desk chair as Layla sat perched on the foot of her bed. Her apartment seemed lonely and strange to her now.

"I have my reasons Mr. Holmes." Layla coolly mocked copying Mycroft's earlier placid tone. He laughed, cold and judgmental.

"Indeed. Would you care to enlighten me, or shall I infer?"

"Your brother and I have an arrangement that suits me." That laugh again. Apparently Layla was on a roll this evening.

"My _brother_ hardly ever does anything that suits anyone else. Tread lightly Ms. McManis. His actions are not for your benefit." Layla tried not to squirm as she fought to bravely maintain eye contact. This Holmes was even more intimidating than the other, she could hardly believe it was possible.

"I've learned, but your brother seems more capable of humanity than you give him credit for. I see it more with each passing day."

"Mmmm. You don't think that you're the cause, do you? Because if you do, he will use that to manipulate you. He _will_ see it and he _will_ abuse it." He leaned forward upping the scary, Layla countered with snark.

"So what is your concern? What does it matter to you, up in your ivory tower, if I'm manipulated?"

He finally broke eye contact and stood up preparing to leave, "I just don't want to see a lawsuit." He accentuated the final two words with a tap of his umbrella.

"A lawsuit? Why would there be a-"  
>"Good evening, Ms. McManis. Our meeting has been <em>most<em> enlightening." He strode towards her door and stopped, "I must say though, a woman in your situation would do best to stay away from Sherlock Holmes, for your health," and with that he smiled unctuously and left Layla completely confused.

"I never thought someone could be more enigmatic than you." Layla collapsed back onto the couch and shook her tea cup in Sherlock's direction.

"What did he want?" John sat down beside her to help rotate her left shoulder, removing her arm from the sling. Layla winced, "he didn't really say anything at all. Just kept telling me to stay away from you, Sherlock, for my health or well being, something about you being a self serving twat." She grinned impishly at him, he, however, didn't enjoy the joke. Instead, he whipped out his phone and began punching the keys at lightning speed.

"Don't take it all too seriously, the two of them are always competing in some regard. You're probably some extra variable Mycroft doesn't want to have to negotiate while keeping tabs on Sherlock." John replaced the sling and sat back setting his feet up on the coffee table. "How's the leg?"

"Ah, itchy, but better besides."

"Good, good. Healing. I'll redress it tomorrow sometime, yeah?" Layla nodded and stood up slowly.

"Sounds alright, I'm off to bed, long day." Sherlock smiled briefly, Layla caught him and rolled her eyes. _That_ wasn't the cause, but she was sure he thought it ought to be.

"Don't go to sleep yet, I have a few questions for you about that conversation." Sherlock waved his violin bow at her and sipped his tea, "I'll be in within the hour."

Layla went to sleep immediately anyway.


	11. The Rapist

"Layla, wake up. I told you not to bother going to sleep, this is important."

"Mmm." Layla's eyes fluttered open to find Sherlock leaning over her, he looked slightly cross. "Sorry. I was really tired." She stifled a yawn and sat up, looking over at the clock, one hour her ass. It was three hours later. "Do you really have no sense of time?" He cut his eyes at her and sat down.  
>"Tell me precisely what Mycroft said, his exact words."<p>

"Um, oh I don't know Sherlock. It was a while ago and I'm exhausted." He placed his hands on either side of her face and looked, alternating, into her eyes.

"Come now, you have a remarkable memory for an ordinary individual. Now tell me."

"Oh, please. I'm tired and now offended. Let me go back to sleep." She sighed and closed her eyes, swallowing another yawn and hoping Sherlock would let go of her face soon.

"Please." She opened her eyes suspiciously, and yes, there he was giving her his best impression of a considerate gentleman.

"Alright. He said I'm too clever not to have left you by now and then that our situation is not at all for my benefit since you're just manipulating me to get what you want and finally that I should get away from you for my health. Oh, and something about a lawsuit." Sherlock hissed and hopped up from the bed to begin pacing.

"He always knows." He begun muttering under his breath and twiddling his fingers. Something about Mycroft's visit tonight did not sit well with him.

"Knows what, Sherlock?" Layla rubbed her eyes, struggling to keep them open.

"Nothing. Mycroft's been snooping again, his eyes are everywhere." He stripped off his shirt and marched into the bathroom.

"Shower?" Layla called after him.  
>"Yes, join me. You need it." Layla smiled and swung her legs off the bed. Sometimes when Sherlock was caught up plotting he accidently indulged Layla's little kinks, like showering with him. He only wanted to expedite his responsibility with helping her while she needed assistance washing her hair and back. Layla, however, planned on using the opportunity to soak him in while he was wet and warm, the sight, the feel and the smell of him.<p>

Sherlock was the best at washing her hair, his long, strong fingers kneading her scalp and skirting carefully around her ears. She found herself falling asleep as she leaned forward against the shower wall and he scrubbed her back. He was so meticulous this evening, and didn't even cop a feel. Layla was a touch disappointed, but what was she to expect, really. Messy shower sex? No. Not while Sherlock was thinking, she was just a distraction at this point that he wanted to get out of the way.

"Did he say health, that very word health?" His voice echoed through the bathroom drawing Layla out of her trance.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, yes his did. And I quote 'a woman in your situation would do best to stay away from Sherlock Holmes, for your health' and then he was muttering about a lawsuit. Confused me." She turned around and took her scrub from Sherlock to wash her chest and stomach. He set to washing himself and Layla watched appreciatively.

Sherlock stepped out a few minutes later and handed Layla a towel, lifting her out of the tub basin by the waist. She toweled off as best she could and stood there dumbly as Sherlock refastened her cast and brace, for sleeping in, quickly and efficiently.

"Layla…" His chocolate voice sounded tentative, "if you feel like this agreement of ours no longer pleases you, you will tell me. Won't you?" His eyes were very green, a strange variation on the icy blue they normally were. They made her heart melt.

"Of course I would, but I won't Sherlock. I'm actually happy with this, despite what your brother implied." She ran her hand through his damp curls and took a step nearer to him, pressing her body up to his.

"Good. I need you to remain honest with me because my brother, although a pompous prick at times, is right. You are living on the edge with me in your life. I tend to attract… incidents."He held her at arm's length and looked her up and down again. "You really are healing quite nicely." A quick smile and then he was gone, darting out the door.

"Sherlock! Where are you going? It's the middle of the night, and you didn't put any nightclothes on me!" He poked his head around the corner and smiled lazily,

"I have my reasons, Layla." He gave a grin and dashed off, throwing clothes on in the process.

When Layla awoke the next morning Sherlock was pacing the room looking wired, he probably hadn't slept, he was in the same clothes he had left in, but he looked absolutely full to bursting with energy. He must have seen her stir because he lunged towards the bedside table and shoved a saucer and tea cup into her face.

"Good morning. Drink up."

"Ugh, it's a bit early, Sherlock." He looked sad, on purpose no doubt, so she took the cup and sipped cautiously.

"It tastes funny." She wrinkled her nose and ticked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, trying to figure out the taste.

"It's decaf. They were out of regular. Go on, you'll need the sugar, I have plans for this morning."

Layla took another sip, "Cheers."

Sherlock sipped his own cup and sat down on the bed. "To your health."

"Sherlock, I don't understand why I have to wear this." Sherlock looked up and grinned coyly and without any explanation continued to sew, yes, sew. Layla turned back to the mirror and looked back at herself in a petticoat. A petticoat. She never thought that she would see herself in a petticoat. A short, extremely fluffy, white petticoat. And not only that, but a black lace-topped corset. She felt at once extraordinarily ridiculous and sexy, even in spite of her cast and sling.

"There, I believe that this will serve." Sherlock stood up and popped out a black maid's frock, he had just finished attaching the white apron and collar.

"Um, how is this going to work? I can't wear heels or anything like that."  
>"No, don't worry they'll want you barefooted." He unbuttoned the back of the dress and held it open for Layla to step into. She had already worked stockings onto her calves and attached one to her garter and the other to her cast. She had laughed hysterically as she had latched it onto the bottom of it but Sherlock has assured her that it was just as appealing.<p>

"In fact, I believe they'll prefer it that way." He had said, completely seriously.

"You keep saying 'they' and it's making me nervous Sherlock, what is it exactly that you have in mind for me today." Sherlock detached her sling and slipped the sleeve over her arm smoothing the fabric before reattaching the strap.

"You don't need to be concerned. You're really just for show today. They aren't allowed to touch the broken ones." He stood back to look over her. "You should put your hair up." He moved over and twisted her hair into a bun surprisingly deftly, securing it with the few bobby pins Layla kept on his bedside table.

"How could you possibly know how to do that?"

"I've observed you do it, it only required reversing the movements to suit someone arranging it from the opposite angle." He finished securing the few stray hairs that stood stubbornly straight up in the air. Actually the same ones he had fiddled with on their first outing together. Layla smiled fondly at the memory.  
>"What?" Sherlock noticed, of course.<p>

"Ah, I just remembered the last time you had to battle with these little guys." Layla caught Sherlock's eye and searched for a reaction, he met her gaze for a couple of seconds and then went back to securing the tiny strands.

"The Sellotape really didn't suit you, John should've known better." Layla snorted and rearranged her skirt.

"I would never have guessed that I would be dressing up again for some case of yours after that."

"Hm. Nor did I. Then again, I thought you would move out immediately after such an embarrassing situation. Your resilience was… intriguing." He ran his thumb softly along her hairline and lingered over her cheekbone.

Layla blushed and licked her lips, "so, don't think you're going to get around telling me exactly what I'm doing by pretending to be affectionate. The thumb graze was a nice touch though." He raised his eyebrows and blinked a couple of times. Layla laughed out loud at this point. Sherlock looked a bit like a startled kitten and her laughter seemed to confuse him even further.

"Erm, well. I need you," he cleared his throat, " I need you to help me infiltrate a sex house. A very special type of bordello-like operation, one that caters to men who fetishize crippled women, temporary and permanent." Layla's eyes must have been bugging out of her skull, because Sherlock began talking even more rapidly, "but you'll be going as my particular attendant, so you will be touched by no one besides myself. The other men and women will be looking only." He nodded smartly and secured a bow to her bun. Layla turned back to the mirror and frowned, she looked so cliché. The bow, the strange frilly bow that Sherlock insisted on her wearing, made it even worse.

"Fine, fine, fine. I'm going to be gawked at by special people who enjoy not-completely-mobile women, but do I really need to wear this bow?" She pouted and pulled at the bow with her good hand, Sherlock tutted and pulled her hand away, re-straightening the hideous adornment.

Layla stepped out of Sherlock's room and promptly received a preview of the looks she thought she would be earning for the next five hours.

"John, that face is not flattering." The poor doctor was standing in front of the refrigerator and had turned just in time to see Layla being pushed out of Sherlock's room forcefully. He reacted appropriately to the ridiculous outfit, with mouth agape and eyes bulging. Upon Sherlock's reminder John had promptly collected himself and bustled to his armchair with his jam and toast.

"I'm sorry Layla." John grumbled over his toast and avoided eye contact.

"No, it's totally fine John. It's good practice for what I'll have to endure for however long this stake out lasts. Plus, it always feels good to have your sexuality reasserted by outlandish costumes and the drool of grown men."

"And women," Sherlock added behind her.

Layla had no idea what she was getting into.

"I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever do that again." Sherlock was carrying Layla up the stairs as she nagged him for the ridiculous predicament they had just escaped from. Sherlock really just needed to watch this one individual who was suspected in a kidnapping/rape case, but the only place he could be certain to find him was there. Unfortunately, this individual was more than a suspect, he was absolutely the perpetrator and that was obvious even to Layla, especially when he tried to steal her. Right off of Sherlock's lap.

Apparently, he was also a crazy serious drug addict who liked to do said drugs then stare at disabled women in demeaning outfits and then trip out so hard he thinks that those live women are in fact inflatable sex dolls. Hence the kidnapping and, well, the rape… obviously.

"And you let him grope me because you were conducting an experiment! Not even remotely OK."

"I needed to see how far his delusion would take him."

"He pinched my nipple!"

"I saw."

"How far exactly were you going to let that progress?"

"If you had needed it, I would have 'rescued' you when he tried to remove you from the room."

"So you would have let him do other things to me while we were in that room?"

"Nothing that would be considered rape." Layla rolled her eyes as Sherlock backed them into the room.

"What happened to you?" John jumped up from the kitchen table and ran over to arrange the couch. "Where is your crutch? Why is there blood everywhere? Is that your blood?"

"JOHN." Sherlock bellowed interrupting John's incessant stream of questions. "Layla is fine, we had a slight incident at the house. The blood is not her own, it is the rapist's-"

"THE RAPIST'S, SHERLOCK?"

"She broke his nose."

"Oh."

"No worries, John. I'm fine, _I_ took care of it."  
>"What you took care of was to impede my investigation."<br>"Oh, please. You knew he was the culprit as soon as he tried to use my nipple as an inflation stopper thing."  
>"You have no proof that that was what he was doing."<br>"He complained to you that I was deflated!"  
>"I think he was referring to the size of your breas-"<br>"Jesus Christ Sherlock! You allowed Layla to be sexually harassed in order to solve a case and now you're going to argue with her about some fuck's asinine insults? Come on!" John grabbed his coat off the hook and threw it around his shoulders, "I'm sorry Layla for this arse of a flat mate. If you need anything you can text me." He marched out without another word.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock sounded wounded. John ignored him and continued his dignified stomping down the stairs.

"What is the matter with him?" Sherlock looked genuinely confused. Layla patted his hand and collapsed back into the cushions.

"One day, dear Sherlock, we'll install the human emotions analysis program. Then you'll understand, that is until you delete it, for memory space." Sherlock smoothed out his expression to that threateningly measured marble mask and went to stare out the window.

"Despite the fact that I do not actively display _human emotion_ I do understand them, thank you."

"Well, you should work on the whole getting a joke thing. Come on, I was kidding. Lighten up. I'm the one who is supposed to be upset besides. Remember, fondled by a criminal, punched him out, lost my crutch while fleeing the scene-"

"_I_ was fleeing the scene, _you_ were being rescued." He turned on his heel and smiled briefly, his mood flipping like a light switch.

"Yeah, well, if you had just briefed me to what was to be expected I wouldn't have felt the need to protect my honor with a fist."  
>"You're so American, solving every problem with violence."<br>"Mock if you will, but it was incredibly effective." Sherlock swallowed a grin but Layla saw it twinkling in his eyes, he seemed to be growing more and more fond of Layla and her sassiness, either that or he was getting even better at pretending to care.

"Hmm, if you had known exactly what I was planning you would have declined."

"Not true. If I knew what you were planning I would've not only been cooperative but also less inclined towards outbursts of violence." Layla wagged a finger at Sherlock and leaned forward to dislodge herself from the sofa. "OK, since you forgot to grab my crutch, I need a bit of support." She held her hand out and hopped towards Sherlock. He stepped back. When she hopped even closer, Sherlock took a further step back, grinning devilishly.

"Uh-uh. I was five once, I remember learning how to swim this way. I nearly drowned. Get over here and help me to the toilet or I will respond with violence again." Sherlock stopped and held out his hands clasping hers and helped her slowly hobble to the bathroom.

John informed Layla later that week that their not so creative use of her outfit did not go unnoticed by him when he returned that evening. Layla had enjoyed it, so she didn't quite mind that he had known exactly what was going on in Sherlock's room. It was the second time they had 'engaged in sexual congress' in the same number of days and Layla felt that finally their situation was returning to normal. Sherlock's devotion to seeing her well, in his very own distant way, had been surprising at first and then comfortably pleasing but it had felt slightly off to Layla. Maybe somewhere deep down Layla knew the entire act was a ploy to ensure he future availability for his needs, maybe Layla was worried she would become too attached to the idea of domestic cohabitation with the boys upstairs. Either way, Layla was relieved when their relationship was based heavily on physical contact again.

"Oh, and I found these in the kitchen sink." Layla snatched her lacy thong out of John's hand and blushed furiously. "I believe you'll need those if you're going to wear the outfit again, which, by the way, I can always tell when you're wearing, because let's be honest, you're French accent is atrocious." Layla playfully slapped the giggling doctor and limped away on his old cane.

"I don't ever use a French accent, John. Sherlock doesn't like it." John's chuckle filled the kitchen again and Sherlock popped his head out of his room to glare at the two of them.

"You sounded like a Canadian porn star. I couldn't stand it."

"How would you even know what Canadian porn stars sound like."

"Mmmm, there was that one case where Sherlock was absolutely certain that the evidence was faked by a particular low budget studio in Quebec somewhere-"  
>"I was right."<p>

"Yes, you were, and as a result we were able to hear the dulcet tones of Ava and Isabella the Monty twins."

"You liked them John."

"I did not. We only spoke with them on the phone, how could I have?"  
>"There were obvious physical signs."<br>Layla choked on her tea and covered it with a sneeze, she had stumbled upon John's un-cleared internet search bar before, she understood.

"Moving on. What are you working on, Sherlock, that demands that we not laugh or joke or have any sort of audible interaction?"

"Nothing you would be interested in, John. It has little to do with sex and absolutely nothing to do with women, so…" Sherlock grinned scathingly and stalked over to the kitchen to upend the greater part of the rubbish and spread an assortment of photos of body parts and began mumbling to himself, falling back into the normal fluxes of a day in 221B.

Later that week, Layla was able to remove her shoulder sling, for good, and therefore hobble even closer to normality.

"Make way boys, I've got two hands at my disposal again. Who knows what I might do!"

Layla burst into the sitting room with the sling twirling around her left hand and looked back and forth at the two men sitting in their respective arm chairs. They both looked up blankly at her as she spun around on the spot using her casted leg as a pivot. John broke the silence first,

"Ah, very nice Layla. Congrats. How's it feeling?"

"Stiff and achy, but moveable!" She gestured out with her left hand theatrically and grimaced slightly at the pressure in her collarbone.

"Careful," John stood and walked over to supervise her small therapeutic movements," don't over work it or you _will_ damage it again."

"No, no I'm fine. Thanks though, John. I just can't wait to be able to type and cut food and—" she paused to think of the other activities she had been impeded from by only having her right hand available.

"Yes?" John was grinning mischievously at her, "what else, Layla?" He looked innocently over at Sherlock, who was no longer paying attention, then back at her.

"—and wash my own hair and dress myself, you know be an independently functioning adult without a nanny."

Sherlock piped up, not taking his eyes away from his book, "I have _not_ been acting as your nanny."

"No, nannies are paid." Layla waved him off and flopped down at the desk table.

"And not with sexual favors."

Sherlock and Layla both looked up, slightly startled, at John who was doggedly staring at the newspaper. Sherlock's shock quickly morphed into a threatening glare but Layla rolled her eyes and turned to her computer.

"Hey, wait!" She whipped back around to stare back at the newspaper headline.

"Is that you, Sherlock? Are you the 'Reichenbach hero?" She glanced over at him to find him wrinkling his nose.

"Yep, that's him. Rescued the painting, they gave him a pair of diamond cufflinks and he said 'thank you,' I was so proud."

Layla giggled and tried to peek over the newspaper at John's face but failed, he was carefully hidden.

"Do shut up John." Sherlock spat at his roommate and stalked off to his room, slamming the door dramatically.

"My, my, he sure is tetchy today, and _you_ are snarky, John. What is going on?"

John set down the newspaper and crossed his legs.

"Oh, well, he's not responding well to the media attention. He's had to be human and polite on a number of occasions. I've been enjoying it though, watching him squirm, and getting free gifts. Just the other day, he received a lovely tie pin which I quickly reclaimed." John grinned contentedly and leaned back in his chair.

"He's neglecting to tell you the real reason he's so wretchedly chipper. John? What was it last night, behind or below? Either way, Layla, John is in such an exuberantly good mood because his current girlfriend finally allowed him to copulate with her."  
>"Sherlock!"<p>

John swiveled around and gaped at the detective who had sidled out of his room and back into the kitchen and was now fiddling with his fresh slides.

"Am I wrong?"

"No, but—"

"What, so you can make jokes about shagging nannies but I can't point out that you're on a post-coital high?"

"OK, that's enough. I'm off to the surgery. Have fun with him Layla!"

Sherlock stalked back into the sitting area after he pushed John out and settled back down to his book. Layla shook her head and opened up her emails, happily typing away with both her hands.

"John was right though, you know," Sherlock muttered over her clicking.

"What about?"

"You really mustn't over work yourself."

"Don't worry, I'll be careful so you won't have to scrub my hair for me anymore. I know that must have been a bother." Layla took the opportunity to run her fingers through her hair, it felt so nice to be able to comb it out and rub her scalp herself.  
>" You'll need both arms for my plans this evening."<p>

"Hmmm, all this talk of copulating made you jealous, eh?"

"Jealous, absolutely not. Have you seen this woman he is with? I believe stoat is the most accurate comparison." He curled his lip and gestured aggressively in front of his face.

"Oh, don't be quite so rude. What's actually wrong with her, is she something 'useless' like a cashier? By the way, anyone with a job is far from 'useless' Sherlock. You need to remember that before you start critiquing."

"Homeless persons are far less useless than some day laborers, I'll have you know. She's an interior designer."

"So you find interior design to be useless, yeah, well you would."

Sherlock hummed and flipped a page in his book.

"So, you've been quite a bit busier than I thought while I've been out of commission." Layla leaned over to retrieve the paper from John's seat. "I mean, I knew you were going out on cases and such once I was mostly mobile again, but I hadn't realized you had rocketed to such levels of fame. I mean look at this spread, you're nearly front page with this one about the banker."

"Hmm. Yes, good." Sherlock clearly was uninterested in this turn of the conversation.

"That hat though, look out."

Sherlock breathed in audibly through his nose but otherwise disregarded Layla's comments on the hat. She gave up poking fun at him, he was in one of his less than sanguine moods.

"OK, new topic: what're you planning that requires my arms? And, be warned , if it involves being bait again, you can count me out. I simply won't be fondled by a stranger again."

Sherlock's lip tweaked but he continued to devote his attention to a monograph on the psychology of group dynamic.

"Please tell me it's something delightfully simple like you need me to be able to brace myself against a wall, or you want someone to double hand your cock." Layla popped out the newspaper and flipped to the article on Sherlock. She skimmed it quickly and tried desperately to see past the grammatical inconsistencies.

"You'd think professional editors would be able catch such simple errors as 'affect' for 'effect' and could avoid the Odyssean adventures of the wandering apostrophe. In one paragraph we have two versions of the contraction 'it's' one with the apostrophe and the other masquerading as a possessive pronoun. Disgusting." She peevishly folded the paper and tossed it onto John's chair with her left arm. Pleased with her shoulder's depth of motion, she worked it around and rolled her neck.

"Don't. Over. Do it." Sherlock precisely enunciated his words and snapped his book shut. "I've changed my mind, we'll do it now."

"And what is that hmm?" Layla watched Sherlock stand and smooth out his jacket.

"Sex, of course."


	12. The Pledge

"Sherlock Holmes, it can't technically be called sex if neither of us is actually having any."

Layla stood with her hands propped against the wall of Sherlock's bedroom and her legs splayed out behind her. The pressure of the weight of her body was just enough to make her shoulder ache so she was feeling mildly irritable, that and the fact that she had been promised sex but was currently not having any. When Sherlock remained silent Layla twisted her head around to catch a glimpse of him standing a couple of feet behind her.

"And I know you're not interested in foreplay, so me standing here naked while you stare is not some frustrating build up to a night of love making. Plus you're not exactly interacting with me in any way or even talking, so this isn't any new age take on sexual frolicking. You lied Sherlock."

She tutted and let her forehead rest against the cool wall.

"If you don't respond and explain this, I'll just keep talking. I know you're back there thinking about something and my endless prattling is _not_ going to make it an easy process."

Sherlock continued to ignore her but stepped forward and moved her broken leg slightly to the left.

"Now what are you doing? You're also not even remotely undressed, and—hey! What are you doing that tickles!"

Layla squirmed impulsively as Sherlock's fingers ran over the fold of her skin above her cast. It was one of the areas that Layla felt most insecure about, she had gained a bit of extra weight since her accident had made her practically immobile and a large majority of it had accumulated around her hips. That additional flesh fell around the top edge of her cast in a gentle bulge. Layla hated it.

"Stop moving. If you continue impeding my observations you will only have to hold that position longer."

Sherlock pressed his other hand against Layla's lower back and fell to his knees.

"I will stay still just as soon as you explain this absurd pantomime to me!"

Despite her threat, Layla had stiffened and held her pose. Sherlock's proximity to her nether regions made her moderately more accepting of this plan.

"Mr. Hardings, the rapist with a cripple fetish, was effectively prosecuted yesterday and a string of victims have emerged from the woodwork who claim to have been harassed by him while he frequented the bordello. " He pressed a finger to the roll of skin with a mite more pressure, Layla bit her lip to stop from squealing at the tickling sensation but failed to keep still. Sherlock sighed and sat back on his heel all the while keeping a firm hand on her back.

"Well, good for the women, they finally will get recompense for this ass's nasty abuse." Layla glanced below her left arm at the top of Sherlock's head. He moved his face even closer to her leg and tucked her skin into the cast.

"Yes, well, one of these women shows the tell-tale signs of taking advantage of the criminal system. She told Lestrade that Mr. Hardings assaulted her in a back alley using a similar position," Sherlock stood up and waved his free hand over her, "she too had a full leg cast and received a variety of bruises in the process and was offering photographs of the contusions as evidence. The position and severity of her bruises, however, could not have resulted from sexual intercourse at this angle. She must have acquired them elsewhere in another activity, I just needed to check my hunch on an actual human being and you are conveniently crippled likewise. "

He released her from against the wall and marched across the room to collect her clothes and his coat.

"I just have to prove this to Lestrade, put these on." He tossed her sweater and skirt at Layla as she flipped around to gape at him.

"What—what for, Sherlock?" Layla nonetheless stepped into her skirt and fumbled with the fastening.

"I just said, I need to prove this to Lestrade."

Layla stopped on the spot.

"Oh no. No, Sherlock, I am _not_ disrobing and exhibiting my ass to a collection of DI's for you to prove a point, especially not in that position."

She sat fixedly down on his bed and crossed her arms over her breasts.

"It's either you, in person, or you preserved for all time in this photograph," he held up his phone and Layla gawked at herself on the tiny screen. She snatched it from his hand and stared even harder, she had never seen herself from this angle, her ass looked enormous.

"Do I always look that squishy, or has this accident added more weight to me than I originally imagined?"

"I've already told you the four and a half pounds are well placed." Sherlock retrieved his phone and tucked it into his pocket.

"Four and a half? Really? That's a four and a half pound difference… then I'd hate to see anymore." She pulled her sweater on and stood from the bed.

"I'll put some more substantial panties on and come with you on two conditions."

"Of course you will, and I will delete it."

Sherlock shrugged into his coat and began threading his scarf.

"One—yes delete that photo, now." Layla opened the wardrobe and pulled out a pair of boyshort underwear, black cotton to hide the newly discovered berth of her backside, and stepped into them.

"And two, I will not be removing any clothing, I'll just hitch up my skirt a bit to reveal the edge of my cast. Deal?"

She turned from the wardrobe and found no Sherlock.

"Hey! Are you listening to me?"  
>"You will not remove any clothing and will only expose enough skin to reveal the edge of your cast," Sherlock echoed out from the front room, "are you coming?"<p>

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I can't believe I let you talk me into shit like this." Layla continued muttering begrudgingly under her breath as she limped out to join Sherlock at the front door.

"I fully expect to be paid back for this Sherlock Holmes." She allowed him to help her into the coat and to usher her down the stairs and to the cab waiting out front.

"Naturally."

The next morning, as Layla lounged lazily on the boys' couch and stared at the petty drama unfolding on TV, Mrs. Hudson bustled upstairs and shooed her out of the flat.

"I thought you weren't their housekeeper?" Layla stood stubbornly in front of the door and watched the elderly lady set out her cleaning supplies.

"I'm _not_, but I have to ensure this place stays rentable somehow. God knows these boys won't keep it in good enough shape to be let out to anyone else if and when they decide to abandon it. I need to make sure it retains its worth. Now off you go, I have to take advantage of them being away when I can."

Layla shrugged and hobbled down the stairs to mope alone in her strange apartment. It felt cold and sterile, Mrs. Hudson must've been cleaning it while she had been bunking upstairs.

_Oh I hate this room. It's so dank and sad and bleh._ Layla flopped onto her bed and sniffed it cautiously. It smelled like nothing, not her detergent or Sherlock or anything.

"Now what am I going to do?" The room didn't answer so she flipped on the television and scooted further back on her bed.

About half way through the new program her phone burst into excited song, a ring tone reserved for Alex. She took a deep breath, steadied herself for an onslaught and answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Well _hello_! How's life, you haven't been keeping me in touch like you promised you would, is it because you're so busy having glorious, glamorous sex with the local celebrity? Hmmm?"

Layla sat quietly for a couple of seconds trying to decide how to answer that question. Honestly, so much had happened since she last spoke with Alex that she had no idea what to start off telling her.

"Yeah, that's right, he's become so well known that we're even getting news of your crazy smart fuckbuddy over here in the US, and that's beyond those of us who follow the blog."

Alex had taken Layla's silence to be one of surprise, Layla decided to run with it.

"Oh, wow Alex! That's pretty intense, I had no idea. I mean, I only saw him in the papers the other day. I suppose it isn't really that big of a deal over here, he's such a recluse most of the time that the 'fame' hasn't had an effect. Then again, I haven't been leaving the apartment much of late so I may not have an accurate appreciation for how much of a celebrity he has become."

"Hmmm. Yeah, that makes sense, but why haven't you been leaving the apartment? Surely you have work to do, you can't just be lying about boinking that gorgeous detective all the time."

Layla grimaced and hesitated, she really didn't want to have to explain the complex living arrangement she had found herself in, especially since Alex would undoubtedly read way too much into it.

"Ah, yes, well no. I haven't been lounging around half-naked in some kind of languorous haze of sexual satiety. I mean, there's been sex, yes, but the sex isn't the thing keeping me indoors. I actually had an accident. Now, before you freak out and scream at me for not letting you know, it was for the best. You and everyone else at home would've been overexcited and unnecessarily concerned."

"You still should've told us, Layla! Come on, we care about you."

"Yeah, I know, the situation just didn't give me much time to think about it all."

"OK, what happened? I mean, obviously it wasn't too, too bad, because you're talking to me now and—"

Layla cut her off, she didn't need to listen to Alex predict what she herself could just relate.

"Well, I was hit by a car after I got off the bus about a month or so ago. I flipped over the hood of it and was knocked unconscious. I don't really remember what happened after that for a few days, I was in a great deal of pain and pretty heavily medicated. Fortunately, John is an ex-army doctor, so he took great care of me and I needed it since I had broken my left collarbone and femur and had various other contusions and fractures. I was in bad shape."

"Dear God Layla! That is ridiculous, please tell me the driver was arrested or at least outrageously fined? I mean the hospital bills alone must have cost you a fortune!"

"You know… I've never even seen the hospital bills." Layla sat in thought for a few seconds. Were the billing steps different here? Did her healthcare tend to that? Or had John and Sherlock taken care of it?

"I—I think Sherlock must have paid for it. I'm not actually sure. Either way, I wouldn't be alive without the two of them. The driver didn't even stop, apparently, and I was left bleeding in the street."

"Bleeding?"

"Yeah, not my head though, don't worry—well I mean blood is always a cause for worry. My femur split through the skin in my thigh and I think I might have sliced open my femoral artery, but John and Sherlock heard the impact and rushed down. If John hadn't been there to stop the bleeding I wouldn't be speaking to you now. Actually, he's the one who set all the breaks and did the emergency care. The ER didn't even keep me overnight. "

"Well you're very lucky indeed. I'm kind of glad you didn't tell me until now, I would have seriously panicked." Alex's voice sounded faint and shaky, maybe she was on the verge of tears.

"I'm completely OK now, Alex. My collarbone is healed and my leg is more than half way there. No need to worry. The boys took good care of me, let me stay upstairs with them and stuff."

"Really? You lived with them, like, in their apartment, all the time?"

"Yep. Ate, slept, bathed up there, the works."

"Dang. How did that work? Did you have a live-in nurse? My nanna had a live-in when she broke her hip, you know, so she could shower and stuff."

"No, just Sherlock and John. And Mrs. Hudson, she did most of the cooking and laundry, well, all of it. John made tea and warmed up beans sometimes. But Sherlock did the most work, washing my hair, helping me change my clothes and stuff. He was really very helpful."

"Oh, interesting."

"What? Why?"

"Nothing, it just sounds like this supposedly heartless sociopath has taken a shine to you Layla. I know of some _devoted_ husbands who wouldn't have done so much for their own wives."

"That's just the thing though, Alex. I'm pretty sure his level of attention is self-serving. Unlike those _devoted_ husbands, Sherlock's connection with me is uncertain. He was just acting like an addict would, doing what he could to ensure that his supply stayed reliable. It isn't affection. Not by a long shot. You'll see I'm moving back to my own place today, he'll be ecstatic I'm sure." Layla made the decision on the spur of the moment to prove a point to herself and her friend.

Alex sighed on the other end of the line, "We'll see, Layla. Just be careful from now on, with all of this. Be careful."

"Oh, I will. I'm always careful now, getting hit by a car does that to you, makes you watch out—"

The sound of doors slamming and raised voices interrupted Layla's train of thought.

"What in the world was that?"

"Oh, you could hear that? That's just the boys; they must be back from whatever errand they were on."

"Lordy they are loud. Are they screaming outside your door?"

"No, upstairs in their flat, and funnily enough that's not a real screaming match. I think the two of them are just overexcited about something."

Alex laughed nervously, "They sound like a handful. I can't even imagine dealing with that day in and day out."

"Oh, it's not so bad once you get used to it. The "big personalities" are part of their charm."

Layla drew air quotes around her words despite the fact that Alex couldn't see her.

"You should come meet them sometime, you'd like John, he's a sweetheart. And there is no doubt in my mind that you'd fall head over heels for Sherlock on sight and then hate him with every fiber of your being once he opened his mouth."

"Maybe this summer. For now, however, I think I need to head to bed, I stayed up to talk with you but it's ridiculously late now."

Layla got off the line with her poor friend and tidied herself up a bit. She might as well have used the time down here to make herself mildly presentable for once.  
><em>I think I really freaked poor Alex out, the dear. She sounded absolutely exhausted by the end of that chat.<em> Layla continued to berate herself for overburdening Alex while she combed out her hair and brushed her teeth.

"Alright, all fresh. Now to find out what has the boys all a-fluster upstairs."

By the time Layla hauled her lame leg up the flight of stairs the ruckus in 221 B had died down a bit, at least to the ear. She stomped up the final step and stood panting in the doorway only to be verbally accosted by both men.

"**LAYLA.**"

Sherlock was dressed but in his dressing gown, clearly in a state over something and John was seated on the couch reading a newspaper, _maybe some crazy new case_, Layla thought to herself. Sherlock promptly marched over to the coffee table and retrieved the deerstalker that lay discarded there. Layla only had an instant to collect herself before both he and John animatedly shouted questions at her.

"?"

"Woah, hold it guys. One at a time, I've no idea what you two are screaming about." Layla trudged further into the apartment, took the hat from Sherlock's extended hand and settled into John's armchair. "Now, what is it?"

Sherlock didn't even give John a chance to pipe up, "What is that?" He gestured violently at the hat in her hands.

"Well, clearly it's a hat, Sherlock. Use that oversized brain of yours." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her and tried again.

"Why the hat, it's always the hat?"

Layla giggled and pulled the deerstalker on. She smiled again, but sadly this time remembering the first time she had worn one of Sherlock's hat. She quickly pulled it off and avoided John's eye.

"Well, the first time I ever saw you on the news you were wearing one of these. It must be the public's impression of you, that you, you know, wear these."

Sherlock snorted and stomped across the room, pacing with his hands behind his back.

"That's ridiculous; I would never wear one of those things if not for a _disguise,_ as it was the first time. Besides, I hardly have any need for multiple earhats!" He threw his hands up in the air and rolled his eyes.

"I know the ways of the ordinary are difficult for you Sherlock, but it's hardly worth throwing such a hissy fit." She promptly received another glare. Undeterred she decided to try and explain the phenomenon.

"It's their way of showing admiration for you, like sending Churchill a cigar or Elvis a crown. The hat is your trademark now, part of what they associate you with."

Sherlock grumbled and perched himself on the back of his chair, at least partially mollified, for now. Layla turned to John next, "Alright John, your turn."

"Oh, I just wanted your opinion to shut Sherlock up but you did that just fine."

Sherlock hissed but held his peace otherwise earning a toothy grin from John.

"But, now that I've got your undivided attention, would you consider me a bachelor?"

Layla saw Sherlock grin sardonically out of the corner of her eye and decided to approach the matter with caution. If Sherlock found it amusing John probably wouldn't.

"Well, by all _normal_ definitions of the term, both of you qualify as bachelors. You're unmarried and all. But why? Is it something to do with the tabloids?" She looked at the newspaper in John's hands and then back to his furrowed brow.

"What? Oh, yes. They're calling me 'confirmed bachelor John Watson.' I think that's meant to mean something besides…" He trailed off and continued reading the article.

"If they knew about the parade of women you've brought up here they might change their mind, if that meaning is really what they're implying. But we all know the parade, heard the song and saw the floats so I wouldn't brood over it too much if I were you John."

Sherlock chuckled and slid further down in the chair but John was less amused.

"Well, fine. Either way Sherlock, I think Layla has made a good point. The press doesn't know everything about us now but they're already making assumptions and assumptions are dangerous. So like I said we need to be even more low-key for the time being."

He wagged the folded newspaper threateningly at Sherlock who rolled his eyes like an impetuous child and began typing on his phone. Layla shook her head and hoisted herself from the chair to rustle up some tea.

"You two want any tea?" She asked over her shoulder on the way to the kitchen.

"Yes, thank you."

Layla hobbled back over with the tea tray a couple of minutes later and set it on the desk. John had repositioned himself behind his computer and had been so kind as to clear some space for the tea.

"There we are, now I'm glad I have both of you here because I have a little announcement."

Both men set to fixing their cups as Layla collapsed into John's chair again.

"What is it?"

Sherlock still sounded irritable but at least he was open to hearing her out.

"Ah, well, I know you two just had that whole discussion about the press and keeping everything low-key around here, so this may not seem particularly well-timed—" She definitely had both of their attentions now, John looked mildly petrified and Sherlock intrigued.

"—I just think it's time for me to go back to the museum so I can collect some of my things and get back to work. I'm tired of sitting around here uselessly, and I _do_ actually have a job to do. I need to get back to my publication work for the research I've completed and I need my notes and other things to do that, so, yeah. I'm going to the museum tomorrow; hopefully we don't have paparazzi loitering outside to snap pictures of me leaving."

"No, no. You know what? I'll go for you, Layla. I saw you trying to get up those stairs on your own, that leg is still a hindrance and the last thing you need is to be dragging it around on a bus and up all those stairs at the National."

John shook his head and set his teacup back in its saucer. His jaw was set and Layla frowned at his determination, he was not going to let this one just slide.

"Sorry, John. I want to go. I'm an adult and besides I'm the only one who knows what I need and where my locker is et cetera et cetera. You're not going to convince me otherwise. I'm going."

"OK, then I'll come with you, I can help you get around and—"

"John, let her go." Sherlock sipped his tea aloofly and kept his eye trained on Layla.

"But Sherlock, she's nearly immobile when it comes to stairs and she'll have to carry things and get on a bus and you remember what happened the last time she got off a bus!" John was raising his voice but Sherlock was unfazed.

"I'm sure Layla will look both ways before she exits the bus this time."

"True, I will be looking both ways and I need to get used to this in case I need to go somewhere again, ever. You two can't escort me everywhere while I still have a cast on _and_ you leaving with a woman from this flat will only draw media attention. If I go on my own, I'm just a neighbor. As soon as either of you show your faces alongside me I become a friend or a consort or whatever."

Layla set her tea saucer down authoritatively and looked over at Sherlock. She no longer warranted his attention apparently, as he had turned back to his mad typing. John looked between the two of them exasperatedly and then sighed in defeat.

"Fine. I can't stop you, I just wish you would take my advice. I don't like it, Layla. I don't like it."

"Alright then!" Layla stood up quickly and collected the dirtied dishes, "I'm going to start sleeping in my own place again tonight." Sherlock's eyes darted from the phone screen to Layla's face and then quickly back. She caught the reaction and note it. "That way I can get up and about on my own tomorrow without negotiating those damned stairs."

She set the dishes in the sink and then limped back to Sherlock's room.

"I'm going to go ahead and clear my stuff out of your room Sherlock. I'm sure you'll be glad to have your personal space back!" Layla shouted out to the front room as she began to pull clothing out of his wardrobe and set it in folded piles on his bed.

"Yes. Thank you." Sherlock strode into his room and turned the corner the bathroom and began to methodically throw all of her bath things into a bag. Layla stopped her packing to watch him in shock.

"What? You're moving back downstairs, shouldn't I help?" Sherlock snapped at her when he noticed Layla gaping at him. She recovered and went back to folding her clothing.

"No, you should. Thank you." She was surprised at his response; he seemed pissy, angry even. Layla had assumed that he would be frustrated with the inconvenience of summoning Layla to pursue their arrangement but she never imagined he would be hurt or angry with her leaving. She thought back to her conversation with Alex an hour or so before and cursed her stubbornness. Alex had told her, now Layla had potentially wounded the blooming, easily damaged 'feelings' Sherlock might have for her.

"Are you upset about something?" Her curiosity got the better of her.

"No. Why would you ask?" He hurled her hair brush into the bedroom and it landed with a thump beside her folded clothes.

"You just seem a bit—tense."

"Do I?" Layla could see Sherlock's expression in the reflection of the mirror, he opened his eyes wide with mock surprise and waved his hands in disgust. _Yep, definitely upset. _Layla decided to leave it alone, he would approach her if he felt like sharing, otherwise Sherlock was Fort Knox when it came to his emotions.

Layla spent the rest of the day re-arranging her apartment downstairs to make it more home-y again. John stopped down a couple of times to drop off other things of hers he had found throughout the day, at one point he even brought her a bag of groceries.

"Thanks, John. I appreciate it."

"Not a problem, Layla. I'm sorry about Sherlock, and also for my stubbornness earlier. We both just got used to having you around and we both know how Sherlock dislikes change. To be honest, I'll probably miss having you up there the most, you provided an ample distraction for Sherlock and a nice bit of humanity for me…" John scuffed his boot against the floor and Layla couldn't help but giggle, he looked so much like an eleven year old who had been forced to apologize.

"You know, John, I'll still be up there most of the time. You've seen this bunker I live in, right? I just need to sleep down here again to give you guys some of your personal space back and to get some for myself. Plus, I really missed my bathtub." She grinned and patted John on the shoulder.

"Anyway, I'm paying for this place so I had better get some use out of it!" She left John in her kitchen to place some linens in her wardrobe.

"Layla." John stopped her when she limped back into the kitchen, the tone of his voice made Layla abandon her jocular mood. "Sherlock may have said that he wanted you out, but don't believe him for a minute. He wants you around, don't let him push you away."

Layla met his eyes and searched his face, John was perfectly serious. Layla pondered what this earnestness could mean.

"I know that you two have some kind of 'deal' of one sort or another which, I'm sure, Sherlock has sworn up and down has nothing to do with emotions, but he's lying or bluffing. I haven't seen the man be this protective of anyone since that CIA bloke roughed up Mrs. Hudson."

"Someone roughed up Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yeah, before you moved in and Sherlock threw him out a window about five times. You should have seen him after your accident; I thought he was going to murder every bystander who hadn't caught the driver's number. He cares about you, and you're good for him. You keep him honest. Just don't let him ruin that."

Layla was dumbfounded as John patted her hand and edged out of her kitchen.

"John, wait. So should I not move back down here?"

"No, do it if you're doing it for yourself like you say you are. But if Sherlock has done something to make you think you're not wanted upstairs, just ignore him and hobble right back up there. You are always welcome."

He pursed his lips and nodded a couple of times before smartly marching out of her apartment. Layla just sat at her desk in shock. _I'm moving back down here for personal space, but should I?_ Sherlock hadn't done anything to make her feel unwanted, she just had thought it was time to reclaim her life, She sat there for a long while considering her situation: all the feelings affected and unorthodox relationships formed by this arrangement she and Sherlock had agreed upon and then compounded by her accident.

"He said it wouldn't have anything to do with feelings." Layla sighed and buried her face in her hands.

Sherlock left Layla to herself that night and she awoke on her own the next morning. Her feelings were hurt but really only bruised. She had expected to earn his disdain after throwing this curveball at him yesterday. So she set about readying herself for a day at the museum and found she fell back into the routine easily. In fact, having her all of her things in her own apartment was refreshing. She hadn't realized how much she had actually missed it.

When she was all dressed and ready Layla decided to quickly pop in upstairs to let the boys know she was venturing out, so that they could be on high alert for car accidents or the like. That's what she kept telling herself, but what Layla really wanted was to see Sherlock.

"Morning guys! I'm off to the museum now so keep your ears pricked for screeching tires."

She tried to keep the tone light. John chuckled and patted her shoulder on the way upstairs.

"Be safe then, Layla."

Sherlock turned his head from his microscope for an instant to assess her and then returned to the slide without a word. Layla shrugged, eyeing the pile of dusty books on the table and hobbled out the door. He was in the middle of one of his experiments and Layla wasn't bearing pressing news, no need to get upset by his lack of concern. It was to be expected with Sherlock. Nonetheless, Layla was, in fact, upset and to spite Sherlock she decided to stay at the museum and work in her dusty cubicle all day.

Later that afternoon Layla received a phone call from a number she didn't recognize. She stepped out of her cubicle to the mobile vestibule and was surprised to find the sun already sinking. Still reeling from the change in time she hadn't noticed, Layla answered the call.

"Hello? This is Dr. McManis."

"Yes, hello Doctor. How are you this evening?" The voice on the other end of the line was heavily accented, Turkish or Bulgarian to Layla's ear, and male.

"I'm well, thank you. May I ask who is calling?"

"My name is Mihael Shertopf. I am calling to offer you a place at a new Minoan dig here in Crete. My team heard of your recent work on Linear A and we have some non-moveable pieces that could be deciphered. The work is on site for the next six months, are you interested?"

Layla swallowed the bubbling mass of butterflies in her stomach and answered excitedly.

"Yes, yes. Of course. When should I be on site?"

"The train out we have on reserve for you leaves tomorrow morning."

"Fantastic."

"We will email you the itinerary. I look forward to working with you Dr. McManis."

"Yes, thank you."

The line went dead and Layla stood in the vestibule trembling with excitement. She had just been personally requested for a dig. She was going to be a language consultant on a dig. She needed to tell everyone she knew. Layla ran, well hobbled really quickly, back to her study nook and collected all her things and dialed Alex simultaneously. Five minutes later she was on the bus and calling Henry. Once she had finished with him she had only to tell John and Sherlock, whom a tiny corner of her brain was reluctant to tell, but she was going to _a dig_ and she was so flipping excited.

She burst into 221 and practically screamed up the stairs, "I'm back boys! And I'm uninjured! AAAAAND I'm going to be a consulting language specialist on a diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig." She sung the words as she skipped, well hopped gracelessly, into the upstairs flat.

"Oh, congrats Layla. I bet you're chuffed." John looked up from his computer and put on a weary smile. He looked exhausted but he at least made an effort to seem pleased for Layla. Sherlock, on the other hand, paid her no mind and continued pacing around the flat. John noticed Layla watching and explained,

"Don't mind him, he's thinking. He'll be pleased for you… eventually."

Layla hummed excitedly and sat down across from John at the desk.

"So what's up? You both seem occupied and it must be big if it's more interesting than me _going to Greece for six months on an additional stipend_!" Layla continued laying on the excitement as she thought about the amazing offer she had received. All expenses paid and all in addition to her research funding at the museum, so she could pay off her rent while she was away and not worry about money at all, just work on the site.

"Very nice." Another weak smile from John, "Sorry, we are a bit occupied, we received some really bad news today while you were out. Well, some really crazy stuff happened while you were out. Um, Jim Moriarty, Sherlock's… arch nemesis, you could say, reappeared and pulled off a triple heist. In the day. It was stressful."

"Oh, wow." Layla was mildly sobered, "So did you guys get called down to the Yard for some consulting detective-ness?" Not too sobered by the news though, this didn't seem very unordinary.

"Well, in a way. Actually, Moriarty asked for Sherlock and then let himself be arrested. It's all a bit disconcerting."

Layla nodded, now officially concerned, and glanced back at Sherlock. He was pacing furiously and had yet to acknowledge her presence.

"It must be a bother for him." She wagged her eyebrows towards Sherlock and John nodded.

"Yes, while you'll be away we will have a good deal to take care of. Moriarty will be called to trial sometime next month and Sherlock will undoubtedly be required to give testimony. "

"Ah, yes. Good point, well I hope all that goes well, because you're right. I'll be gone the entire time. I'm leaving tomorrow morning and will be gone—"

Layla was cut off by the screeching of an achromatic scale from Sherlock's well-abused violin. Both she and John grabbed their things and ran out of the room with their hands over their ears. John shrugged at Layla as she stared questioningly at him from the front door way and they both evacuated the flat to leave Sherlock to his brooding.

Layla spent the rest of her evening gathering her clothing and research materials. At some point after midnight she fell asleep at her desk while organizing her paperwork for the trip. She jolted up from the uncomfortable position when she heard a creaking in the floor board. All the lights were off now and Layla was practically blind and completely disoriented. She hadn't remembered where she was when she fell asleep but she could tell from her neck and the chair she was in that it wasn't somewhere she had meant to fall asleep. She waved around frantically to find something that would alert her to her surroundings. Her hands slammed into the wall and her computer screen, and Layla relaxed.

"I'm at my desk." She breathed and nearly jumped out of her skin when Sherlock's voice broke the relative silence of her flat. He had to be only a foot away from her face.

"Not a very good place to sleep before an important trip."

His hand appeared under her arm and helped to ease her from the chair.

"You scared the fucking shit out of me." Layla's voice was barely a squeak. She had absolutely not expected him to come down to her apartment again, much less when he was so immersed in a problem like Moriarty.

Sherlock merely hummed and guided her over to her bed.

"What time is it?"

Her alarm clock hovered briefly in front of her reading 3:12 and then retreated back to its spot on her bed stand. Layla groaned and ran a hand over her neck, sleeping in that position with her head flat on her desk had irritated the tendons around her newly recovered shoulder injury. Sherlock's hand fluttered her own away and began to carefully knead the area.

"Oh. Thanks, that spot is so sensitive still." Layla relaxed into his hand and allowed herself to be gently laid down on her bed.

"Sherlock, what're you—"

"Shhh. Go back to sleep, you have far too much to worry about tomorrow to not get a good night's rest."

Layla complied and drifted back to sleep as Sherlock continued to softly message her neck and shoulder. Just before she completely lost consciousness she could swear she felt him lay down around her. When she woke up three and a half hours later to her blaring alarm Sherlock was gone but his scent still lingered on the pillow beside Layla's head. She smiled as she thought back to him, he had been very tender, he did care. In his own way. _Did I hear him tell me to be safe or did I just dream that?_ Layla shook the sleep from her head and rolled out of bed to get ready for her eight o'clock train. She needed to hurry if she was going to get everything ready on time. As she finished stuffing clothing in her back she found Sherlock's black dressing gown. It was carefully tucked into its own pocket, Sherlock must have secreted it in while Layla slept. She smiled again and zipped the pocket, it seemed he wanted her to think of him while she was away. He _had_ been listening yesterday.

When she was ready to go she hollered up the stairs to say goodbye to the boys. There was no response and Mrs. Hudson popped her head out of her rooms to let Layla know they had gone out early.

"Oh, well I'm off. I'll be in touch, yeah? Let 'em know I said toodles." Layla gave Mrs. Hudson a quick hug and limped out to call a cab.

"Will do, love. Take care." Mrs. Hudson waved her off as Layla's cab drove away and Layla looked wistfully back at 221 Baker St. It would be a long time until she saw it again.

Several hours later just as Layla boarded her second train in France she received a text from Sherlock:

_Mycroft informed me of your _actual _purpose here, your presence at 221B is no longer required_

Layla sat in shock as she read the text over and over again. Mycroft had what? _Mycroft told him that you were just a distraction planted there by him, you silly little girl._ Her brain chided Layla for her ignorance. Luckily Layla's compartment on the train was private because she cried for hours and hours. When she finally calmed down and tried to call Henry for an explanation she found her phone had lost service, so she resignedly turned to her pre-dig information packets and tried to push her broken heart back down her throat.

**A/N: Obviously this is not going to be romantic or humorous for a while, sorry!**


	13. The Turn

_Dear Diary_,

joking… sort of.

This feels awkward and absurd after all this time; it's been about three and a half months since I've compiled the day to day adventures of "Layla and her upstairs neighbors;" life here on the dig site doesn't warrant such regular recording. Future-me would have the pants bored off of her if I were to have written that crap up regularly. Basically, I sit in a hole and stare at a wall for eight hours a day. I'm filthy beyond recognition, so much that I'm pretty sure a two hour shower would only rid me of the most recent month's worth of dirt. Anyway, the reason I've finally picked up this journal again is because I finally have something worth talking about finally.

Earlier today, while I was in my dark, depressing hole in the ground, I was called to surface level by the dig supervisor. By the time I was top side the supervisor had gone back to his own business leaving a very shabby and… well, smelly man standing there holding a small brown paper package. Now, when I say he was shabby and smelly you must believe that he was _really_ shabby and smelly because, like I mentioned before, at this point in the dig the entire site team has lowered their expectations for hygiene to nearly none. Continuing, the man held out the package but when I reached for it, he withdrew it looking really carefully at me and asked me my name. I hesitated because his accent wasn't that of the normal Cretans, he was British. I put that in the back of my mind to think about later and then told the man that I was Layla McManis. He nodded and gave me the package. It was smallish, about the size of an envelope but sturdy, like it was made of cardboard. I flipped it over to look for a return address or any other marking but the entire thing was completely blank. Confused, reasonably so, I think, I glanced back up to ask the stinky delivery man who this was from but he had scampered off to who knows where. I decided a mystery such as this one required a proper break so I headed under the snack tent and sat down to pick apart this package.

Inside the tent, shaded from the blinding sunlight and with less people staring I was more able to inspect the little brown box. Unfortunately, the entire thing was totally unremarkable, no postage, no recipient address and, as mentioned before, no return address. The whole thing seemed homemade even. Once I had determined that I couldn't discover anything from the box itself I whipped out my site knife to break the clear tape seal. Inside the box there was what looked to be a black piece of note paper folded in half. I picked it up, a little surprised at the weight of it, it was thick, expensive stationary, and unfolded it. Inside it had been scrawled, _I am sorry. Keep him safe._ Naturally, I was confounded and suspicious. This was unclear and completely without context. Of course, the first thing I hoped was that Sherlock was trying to get in contact with me discreetly. I looked back in the box to search for any other hints to who could've sent this and there it was. My earring back, the one I had 'lost' in his room that first night we spent together. So it was Sherlock, but what did he mean by 'keep him safe?' Keep who safe? Who was him, John? I searched the rest of the box, which took very little time since it was so small and so obviously empty, and then flipped over the stationary in case he had written anything else. He hadn't left another note but I found something taped onto the back of the card, a tiny white pill.

Now, I have no clue how long I stared at that pill before the revelation hit me, but when I did realize just what Sherlock had sent me I gasped and stood from my chair, effectively upending both chair and fold-out table. It was my morning after pill. I ran, full speed and with only one thought on my mind, to my tiny walk up about a mile off sight. I didn't even pause to alert anyone; I just flat out booked it to where I knew a land line was since my cell phone still wasn't working. At my apartment I dialed first Sherlock and then John's numbers but no one answered. After another three minutes of psycho-dialing the two numbers I gave up trying to scream at Sherlock until his ears bled and instead decided to walk back to the site and tell the supervisor that I had to go into town.

The supervisor called me up a transport bus and gave me some cash to go into town, no question, nothing. I should have been suspicious at that point, but I wasn't. I was too busy freaking out. Two hours later I was sitting in my flat again, this time staring dumbly at three pregnancy tests, all very positive.

At this point I was off the charts panicking, not to mention confused. When I had 'taken' the morning after pill I had been beyond the 'danger zone' of ovulation, well mostly. Also, he had started using protection more or less afterwards, no, not really; we hadn't bothered with it but once. But I had had a period after the accident; yes, it was lighter and so were my following ones but I had never been particularly regular and I had thought that the stress of the car accident and then the dig had been screwing up the pipes. And yes, I had gained a bit of weight but that could've been blamed on the immobility the accident caused and then the fact that I spent the greater part of everyday sitting on my ass in a friggin pit. All that evidence hadn't explicitly pointed to pregnancy and yet there I was, pretty clearly pregnant and four months along at least, unless all three tests were false positives.

I decided to call Alex on the landline at that point, I needed to talk this out with someone and since the father of the tiny creature inside of me wasn't going to answer his phone I had to resort to my over-excitable friend.

"What the FUCK is going on over there?" Alex voice was indescribably loud and high-pitched despite the tinny quality of the call. "I just got a call from Henry, he told me that John and Sherlock are on the lamb form the police."

It was my turn to scream incomprehensibly.

"Yeah, apparently they were getting arrested for something, Henry didn't explain what, and then Sherlock took John as a hostage of some sort and ran off. Henry didn't explain how he took John hostage or why but, yeah. I thought you would be able to explain, I guess not."

"No, I most certainly cannot explain since this is the first I've heard of any of this nonsense."

"What? You haven't been in contact with your paramour?"

"No, Alex. No. Things became complicated, not as much as they are now. Wow, what a day."

I laid back on the bed, completely overwhelmed by the entire situation.

"Ugh, this day." I groaned. "First I get a mysterious package from what had to be a homeless person and then I find out that I'm pregnant and now the father of my child is running from the police."

"YOU'RE WHAT?"

I explained the package and the rest of my day to Alex as I pulled up my incredibly slow dial-up internet and investigated her story. The news sites confirmed it all and I made an impulsive decision, booking the earliest flight to London the next morning.

"OK Alex, I'm heading back tomorrow morning on the 9 am flight to Heathrow. There's no way I'm going sit over here and wait for news of this. I don't have cell access, nor do the rest of the workers here on site, plus I'm tired of waiting for someone to answer their phone to find out what is happening, especially now that it seems to involve me very intimately. The worst part is that he knew, Sherlock bloody Holmes knew that I was pregnant. And he seems to think that it's a boy."

"Well, good luck tracking him down."

"I'm not going to _track him down_, I'll just go back to 221 and hope he shows up. He has connections, he'll probably know when I get back there and he'll be angry that I've come back against his orders. If not anything else, John will force him to come talk to me. I hope."

"Good plan. So when will you get in?"

I looked back at my flight plans, "Crap, I have a two hour layover in Zurich, that means," I counted out the additional hours and the time difference on my fingers, "ugh, I won't be into Heathrow until after noon. Ridiculous."

"It'll be fine, Lay. That'll give you time to hatch a scheme." Alex giggled softly but caught herself when I growled with frustration.

"This isn't some scheme, Alex! I have to go confront the most impossible man on the entire planet. He has been manipulating me for months now emotionally, I was OK with that. But now, now, I find out he has basically been manipulating my body, against my will. NOT OK. URGH!" I was throwing all my clothing back into a suitcase at random, determined to pack everything up, go tell the dig site that I was leaving indefinitely because of personal reasons, and then go sleep at the airport.

"But that's not all, not only has the man abused my trust and psychological state by lying to me and planting his brilliant spawn in me, but now he's gone and gotten himself arrested! There is just so much wrong with this! So, no. It is not even remotely funny."

"Ah, I'm sorry Layla. Really I am. Just think though, a baby!"

"I can't really get excited about a baby I have no way to take care of, especially if his father is a convicted criminal! Listen, I have things to do. I gotta go."

I hung up the phone without waiting for Alex's response and went back to storming around my apartment collecting my possessions. Once everything was packed I called a far-too-expensive taxi and took a ride back to the dig site, leaving my bags in the cab. However, on site was weirdly empty. It was, by that point, only about five pm and normally the site didn't clear until after seven, once all the daylight was used up, and even then there were sometimes people on site much later performing material catalogues and whatnot. But here was this huge site, normally crawling with dozens of archaeologists, completely empty with two hours until sunset. I wandered over to the supervisor's trailer, inexplicably confused for the third time that day, and slowly opened the door. There he was, so the site wasn't completely a ghost town, but he was busy packing up all his things.

"Mihael? What's wrong, did we lose rights?" I asked hesitantly, I was almost scared to hear the response considering the day I had had so far.

"Oh. Layla. No, the dig is over, though." He turned back and looked me over, genuinely surprised it seemed. "We didn't lose rights, funding more like it."

I paused for a second and stared at him, something was different. His accent was gone, he sounded British.

"What's—" I was interrupted by a young woman I had before thought was a graduate student from America, but who was now dressed in a stunning suit and flaunting a spot on British RP.

"Excuse me, sir, M Holmes on the line for you." She handed Mihael, I suppose his name was not actually Mihael now, she handed him the phone, a working cell phone, and walked out.

I waited patiently while he had a very short conversation with M Holmes, no doubt the mysterious elder brother of Sherlock. As soon as that call was cut off though, I ripped open with an absolute barrage of questions.

"What's going on here? Was this even real? Who are you people? Why are you leaving, really? How do you have cell service?" I was screaming, and not at all concerned about how histrionic I was coming off.

"Dr. McManis, I must stop you there. I apologize for the deceit, but I am not at liberty to share all the details with you. What I can say is that this dig was, in fact, a plant and none of your co-workers were archaeologists, but they _were_ paid to be here. So once, you left site, for what seemed to be for good, we broke up the pretense, it was expensive to maintain. You were leaving—we were too. Good evening, miss."

He promptly pulled his suitcase together and marched out. By the time I ran out behind him, he and his female accomplice were speeding off in a lovely luxury sedan. I marched off even more confused and angry to my cab. When I was in the cab my cell phone service came back enough for me to receive calls but not to send them. I hadn't realized before that I couldn't receive them until I was alerted to the FIFTY NINE voicemails I had accumulated. Unfortunately, none of them were from Sherlock. John called a couple of times to check in. His last message was mildly urgent asking me to call him as soon as I could since he had bad news about the trial, but that message was from about a month ago. The rest were from various work contacts and Alex, except for the message after John's last one. It was from a woman, Kitty Riley, asking for an interview from the 'secretive downstairs neighbor of Sherlock Holmes.' I guess something crazy went on with the court case and the public is now even more eager to learn about him. I don't really know, I'm just eager to get home and figure this whole mess out.

Now I sit here in the airport, curled up in a tiny chair with all my belongings stacked on and around me trying to calm down enough to get some sleep before my big day of confronting sociopaths tomorrow. I'll write again as soon as I figure everything out back in London. I have a sinking feeling that this might take a fair amount of energy to sort out.

* * *

><p>I believe in Sherlock Holmes.<p>

* * *

><p>Well, here I am again. It's been a while since I've written. At first, I wasn't even going to keep this up, it's been too much to handle, but everyone else has convinced me that this is therapeutic. So here it goes, Sherlock is dead.<p>

I arrived back at 221 to find John absolutely disconsolate. He wouldn't speak to me, he hardly moved when I came screaming into the flat. Eventually, Mrs. Hudson rushed up to usher me away. When we got into her little sitting room downstairs she told me what happened. How Sherlock had stood atop the roof of St. Bart's, declared himself a fraud and then jumped.

That was the first time I felt morning sickness. I threw up in the bathroom over and over again. I don't even know how long I sat beside Mrs. Hudson's toilet shivering. I've never felt so cold or empty. At some point the sweat and tears all ran together and left a sheen of moisture all over my face and chest. Mrs. Hudson, saint that she is, stayed with me and cried all the while, finally helping clean me up. I suppose she thought I was sick from just the news, which I may have been, I'm still not sure.

I stayed with John for the funeral and a couple days afterwards, he was in a terrible state and I was worried for his well-being. But once I knew he was going to counseling and that he could at least approach 221 again I decided to leave. I couldn't stand to sleep in that place anymore, the sounds, or the lack thereof and the smells of everything just made me sick. So, I moved back to America. I'm living with Alex now, writing up my research, I gave up my place near the university. Technically, my sabbatical isn't over yet so I have nothing to do on campus and no reason to live on my own again. I don't think I'm ready besides. To be alone that is, it's been two weeks since Sherlock died and I realized I was four months pregnant, I think I have a reason to not want to be alone.

* * *

><p>Yesterday Mycroft Holmes contacted me to offer me an 'actual job' with the British government doing something like what Henry did for the Germans, a cryptologist. I asked him why, suspicious of anything the man said. He answered candidly, I assume, that he wants to get to know his nephew. I tried to act surprised but really I knew better than to be.<p>

I rejected the offer at first. I argued that it was a bad idea, too many unpleasant memories. He mocked me, trying to goad me on. Said that he didn't believe that I _loved _him. I responded bluntly, that actually I did. Mycroft grew quiet on his end briefly and then continued with his argument. He pointed out that John really needs a friend to create some stability, plus that a little Sherlock would do him some good. I still hesitated but then he mentioned that my flat was open.

I accepted in the end, the idea of living in that flat was too appealing. I miss London, I miss Baker St., I miss it all despite the pain. Moving back here almost made it worse, like Sherlock never existed. So, here I am getting ready to move back at the end of the week. Good thing all my stuff is still in storage over there, I haven't gotten around to shipping over the furniture. I think I was always planning on going back. This just works out perfectly.

* * *

><p>I'm back in London now, by the time I made it back over and found John, it was pretty clear that I was pregnant. He was incredibly surprised, I had decided not to tell him or Mrs. Hudson before I left so, actually they were both surprised. Mrs. Hudson cried when she saw me and John was clearly affected, but happy, it seemed, for me and for the fact that the child exists. He asked about it, how this child could've happened. When I told him about Sherlock exchanging the pill he laughed. It was good to see him laugh. After that we had tea, decaf for me, and tried to figure out why Sherlock would do it, neither of us could decide on his reason but it was refreshing to talk about Sherlock with someone. I only cried once, I think we are both beginning to heal.<p>

* * *

><p>The other night, the third back in my flat, I had an unnervingly realistic dream about Sherlock. I woke up crying, really crying, loudly and grossly. John came down in a panic, he heard the wailing and thought I was having a problem with the baby. I told him about the dream, that Sherlock was in it, not that Sherlock had held me in my bed and stroked my pregnant stomach and then had faded away, again. John took me back upstairs and set me up on the couch with a cup of tea. He decided that I should stay up there to help the nightmares, he offered me the spare room, Sherlock's room. I slept on the couch, I couldn't sleep in Sherlock's bed.<p>

I wish I had slept in his room; it would have prevented the sleep walking. I wandered out into the hallway in the small hours of the morning and tumbled down the stairs. Apparently I'm even clumsier in my sleep. John took me to the hospital to check on the baby, I almost wish he hadn't. The baby is dead. I don't know why, but I'm not really surprised. I guess I had never felt it move, ever.

He had been right, it was a boy. After the procedure they came in and told me, John was really upset, which was to be expected, but Mycroft's response surprised me. He was visibly disappointed, sad, angry, as was usual with the Holmes men I couldn't tell what the emotion was, I just knew it wasn't a happy one. I tried to comfort him and John by telling them that it probably wasn't due to my tumble down the stairs, that I was pretty sure it had been dying for weeks now. Depression, after all, is never good for new mothers. They didn't find the information comforting.

* * *

><p>It's been a couple weeks since I lost the baby. John and I have become really close, we have both moved on even more. He's dating this lovely girl, Mary, a special education teacher downtown. She's really very good for him, for both of us really. Like a little ray of sunlight in the dim depressing cave that the two of us have made Baker St. into. She gets him out, even me sometimes as well. We all go to dinner some evenings, the three of us, occasionally even Molly joins.<p>

Molly has been around the flat too, doing what she can. She turned up a couple of days after the still birth and offered to help me out, apologized for not helping more when I had my first injury. I'm still not sure how she found out about it all, Mycroft probably. Mycroft has been irritating but helpful as well. I went to work for training a couple days after I left the hospital. It's been different but engaging, I don't really think I'm going to be especially helpful but I'm sure Mycroft likes the idea of having me under _really _close surveillance. I don't understand why he is still invested after the baby incident but I'm sure he has his reasons, probably to manipulate John or maybe he owes Henry a favor. Who knows, perhaps he has another family member he will try to control with my body.

Anyways, things are normal. As normal as I could have expected after Sherlock Holmes turned my life upside down. I never go a day without thinking about him, but the idea of him doesn't haunt me anymore, I even sleep in his bed when John stays with Mary.

* * *

><p>I think I've become too comfortable with the being here, too content. My subconscious is starting to play tricks on me; I could've sworn I saw Sherlock earlier today. I decided I wanted to pay Molly back for all the dinners she had brought over for me when I was still recovering, so I baked up some cookies and headed over to her apartment. She was flustered and happy that I had stopped by, normal, adorable Molly. She thanked me profusely and invited me inside but I had other errands to run so I thanked her and headed out. She seemed disappointed that I didn't want to stay and maybe I should've, for social time and to prevent what happened next.<p>

When I got outside I saw a man, about six foot tall with curly brown hair, nothing particularly special but he caught my eye. When he turned the corner I was able to see his profile and I nearly fell over in shock. I swear to all that is holy that that man was Sherlock Holmes. That nose, those lips and chin- a perfect replica of a silhouette I will never forget. When I finally pulled myself together he was gone around the corner and lost in a sea of people. The thing is, he wasn't dressed like Sherlock, he wore normal clothing, a hoody and some jeans. My brain was playing tricks on me, projecting his face onto a stranger with a similar build. That profile and his walk though had me obsessing over finding this man again.

Mycroft caught me at work later and asked me if something was the matter. He must've been able to tell I was distracted. I confessed what I saw earlier in the day but tried to act nonchalant about it. Mycroft reacted mostly as I thought he would, offering me a cup of tea and an only-mildly-patronizing grin but then sent me home early. I'm glad for it because I really couldn't focus for my life; I just keep imagining him everywhere.

* * *

><p>Maybe I'm not crazy. Maybe it was Sherlock. I ran into him again by Bart's. I went in early for a checkup to make sure everything had healed up after the baby. I was busy trying to fish my cell out of my purse when I reached the front door. A man held open the door for me and said, "There ya are, miss." I looked up immediately because the voice sounded vaguely familiar, resonant and gravel-y . It wasn't quite right, wrong accent and pitch but familiar enough to make me look up at him. I only managed to get a glimpse of his face briefly before he was out the door and down the street, but it was most definitely Sherlock. His eyes, his eyes were perfectly blue.<p>

I burst back out of the hospital and tried to run after him. I even called out, not by his name- I didn't want to draw even more attention to myself- but he just walked on more quickly. Finally I just screamed "I know it's you!" and stomped inside. I needed to get to my appointment and there was no reason to make any more of a scene when he wasn't responding. I decided I would call Mycroft and ask him to check CCTV. Of course, Mycroft was less than helpful about it when I finally cornered him at work the next day. He told me if I needed more time off he could give it, but for the time being I need to be sure I look more professional. Apparently, my converse aren't appropriate for government buildings. I'm going shopping with Mary this evening for some new shoes, let's hope that gets my mind off of all this.

**A/N: Boring filler in Layla's depressing voice. The next chapter gets better, promise.**


	14. The Prestige

Well, I was right. I have so much to explain and let's face it, it'll read better in the third person. So here we go again.  
>Layla had known that it was him, it was his nose that really gave it away. He later mentioned that he should've used a fake one but in his experience he always succeeded by hiding in plain sight. Layla supposed that that only worked when one is hiding amongst strangers.<br>She caught him by the public archives building, or whatever big, government building it was, she wasn't really concerned with which one it was at the time. He looked the same as the last time she had seen him, shorter, lighter hair than she was used to but his face was un-miss-able. He even wore a suit, but not that glorious coat of his. That would've been too distinctive. Then again, the suit was not of normal Sherlock caliber, it was ill fitted and cheaper, like he'd gotten it from a cheap department store, instead of one of the custom tailored ones he wore before he 'died.' So he was keeping up the disguise. He had also put on that accent again, he sounded much less refined.  
>Layla literally ran into him this time, full on into his side as she was trying to focus on walking in a brand new pair of heels. She had bought a new pair while out with Mary the previous day and was wearing them as she ran her errands in order to break them in. Unfortunately, her clumsiness was not especially conducive to multi-tasking. She was forced to focus completely on walking just to stay upright and couldn't be bothered to look where she was going.<br>When she ran into him he had feigned anger until she stood up and looked him square in the eye.  
>"Holy mother of-"<br>He clapped his hand over her mouth and pulled Layla into a side alley.  
>"Shh. Layla you must keep calm and quiet."<br>Layla stood gaping at him for a minute or so while he tiptoed back to the entrance of the alley and peered up and down the street.  
>"No one saw us. We're lucky. No, keep quiet. I know that this is a shock for you but for our safety you simply must shut up." He placed a hand over Layla's mouth again and stooped down to inspect her carefully.<br>"You're not in shock, good. Now listen. I hadn't meant to run into you today, it's too soon. But you are correct, I am not dead. I will explain, but not now, not here." He looked back behind him and listened for a few seconds.  
>"I will meet you elsewhere to speak more about this."<br>Layla waited staring at him, soaking in his presence. She was sad he had changed his hair but, overall, it was absolutely intoxicating to see him again. He looked thinner and sad, his face gaunter than ever and even paler. She tentatively raised her left hand and lightly touched his cheek allowing herself to test the solid warmth of him. He wasn't dead. His eye flicked to her hand on his cheek and Sherlock removed his hand from her mouth and stepped back from her.  
>"Mary and John are going away-"<br>"Yes, I know. Until then, Layla," he looked down intensely at her and held her eyes, "you must keep completely quiet about this. Tell no one."  
>Layla blinked a few times to hold back the tears and nodded her head silently. At this point, she would do absolutely anything to see Sherlock again, to hear him speak to her. A little voice in the back of her head told her she should be outrageously angry at the man before her but she pushed it aside. Joy was the only emotion she could handle.<br>"Goodbye, Layla." He straightened his suit and walked quickly away leaving Layla to weep openly in the alley.

That weekend when Mary and John took a holiday away together Layla set about cleaning up both 221C and 221B. She was nervous and she needed something to occupy her time until Sherlock decided to pop in. She wasn't exactly sure when he would arrive; she still didn't know how he knew that Mary and John would be away this weekend or if he even had the right information about the timing.

She had finished tidying 221B by noon on Saturday, she actually grinned at how easy it had been to keep the giant place clean now that Sherlock wasn't there anymore. She had thought about the fact before but it had been accompanied by a sinking sadness, now it was funny. He was a complete slob and his absence removed the biggest contributor to the place being a wreck.

Layla was just finishing up picking up her dirty clothing in her own apartment when her bell sounded. She checked her face in the mirror, smoothed out her skirt and hustled to the front door. She had had some time to think about how she was going to handle seeing Sherlock again, the first time had been a fluke since it was a complete surprise, but now Layla felt she needed to have some kind of plan. She was furious with him for a variety of reasons, all of which she planned to confront him about, but she was also overwhelmingly relieved that he was alive. She was torn between slapping him and jumping his bones as soon as she saw him. So as she approached the front door she wanted to be sure she looked her best but not like she was throwing herself at him, just in case she decided to kill him, for real this time, and with her bare hands.

She opened the door to a work man, well she thought it was a painter.

"Oh, we didn't—" Layla changed directions when she saw Sherlock's ice blue eyes glint from beneath the cap and prosthetic mask, "um, please, come on in."

She waved to the entry way and took a step back for Sherlock to stalk inside. As soon as the front door clicked shut Sherlock whipped off the hat and mask, tucked them under his arm and ushered Layla quickly upstairs.

"Fab disguise Sherlock. The squishy mask was a nice touch, were you worried about someone recognizing you here but not in the middle of a crowd of people surrounding the very place where you supposedly died?"

Clearly she had chosen to be pissy. Sherlock turned around once they reached the next floor with his back to the rest of the apartment and waved towards the windows. Layla rolled her eyes and pulled the shades.

"I'm worried about people seeing me here, yes. Very few people actually enter 221 besides the residents and any outsider coming in that looks remotely like Sherlock Holmes, a famously late resident, would arouse suspicion. In other places, St. Bart's for example, I need only look as though I belong among the numbers, although I admit a hat might have been a good addition to my outfit near Bart's."

Sherlock stepped out of the coveralls he was in and, folding them, set them with the mask and cap on the kitchen table. Layla sat in John's chair and watched Sherlock as he scanned the apartment. He walked over to the mantelpiece and looked closely at the new photo of Mary and John that Layla had taken at one of their dinners out together. He squinted at it and then stood back up, his nose still curled.

"So, are you going to explain yourself or are going to continue glaring at the new additions to the flat?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped back to Layla's face and surveyed it carefully.

"You're upset."

He didn't seem surprised by the fact, he was just stating an observation. He took a seat gracefully in his own chair, looking completely as though nothing strange had happened in the last few months. Layla noticed he was back to wearing his normal suits beneath the coveralls. She allowed a small smile and then, summoning up all her courage and residual anger, glared at Sherlock.

"Well, Sherlock, let's take a moment to think about how I just spent the last five months, shall we? First, on a fake dig, I was unaware that I was in the middle of an apparently high-risk pregnancy, all the while thinking that the man I had been happily sleeping with and for whom I had developed an unfortunate fondness actually hated me. Next, I found out that the long, arduous dig was a fake, that I was pregnant, that the man I was pregnant by had lied to me and switched my birth control with who knows what to ensure I got pregnant, that he was a criminal on the run from the police and then, that he had died. I found out all of that rather _upsetting_ information within twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours Sherlock! I don't even know what my emotions were doing during that time, then within the next month I moved to America and then back to London, because your controlling older brother insisted upon it, and promptly lost the child I had been carrying who was the only reminder of his dead father for me, the father's best friend, and his brother. Do you know what kind of guilt that fosters, Sherlock? What kind of heart-breaking misery? I lost you. Twice, basically. Now here you are, alive, walking the streets you supposedly spilt your blood on, while your best friend struggles on a day to day basis, just to do quotidian things, and your ex-lover tries to put back together the life which you scrambled like an egg. So, yeah, Sherlock, I'm upset."

Sherlock looked painfully bored but Layla noticed that his jaw was set and clenched; he wasn't as unfazed as he wanted himself to appear. _Perhaps he's out of practice_, Layla thought to herself as she waited for Sherlock to make his pithy comeback. Instead, his face relaxed and he leaned forward and stared into Layla's eyes. She swallowed as she was reminded of the intensity of that gaze.

"Layla, when I wrote to you that I was sorry, I meant it."

The change in his demeanor made another chink in Layla's armor of righteous anger. She squirmed in her seat but held eye contact with him.

"I couldn't be sure what you meant Sherlock. There were a lot of lies floating around in our relationship, if you can even call it that. You lied from the start, I mean the earring back, come on! Why didn't you just give it back to me?"

It was Sherlock's turn to fidget, he began twiddling his fingers on his knee. Clearly he was uncomfortable talking about his motives for things.

"I kept the earring back because I knew that at some point it would become useful, as it did in this situation, for proving my identity without stating my name."

Layla figured there were other reasons he kept it that he wasn't sharing, he wouldn't have become so twitchy over admitting to be manipulative. Nonetheless, she let it slide, there were other things she was more interested in learning.

"That's what I'm talking about, Sherlock. I can't tell when you're manipulating me and when you aren't, even if you ever aren't. But, thanks, I'm glad to know you were actually sorry for ruining my life."

Sherlock sat back and crossed his left leg at the knee, his face an emotionless mask again.

"This, Layla, your inability to separate your emotions from your objective rationality is the reason I neglected to tell you and John the all the intricate details of my doings. It is a weakness I couldn't afford in such a precarious situation. Nevertheless, it is over now, and I suppose I can explain everything to you."

He stood to pace the room as he spoke and Layla listened attentively, as angry as she was with him she was equally entranced by Sherlock's schpeal.

"I suppose you're most curious about the recent developments. I apologize again for falsifying a dig and abusing your career but it was absolutely necessary to remove you from the country to protect you and the baby. The moment I knew Moriarty was back in London and active again, I contacted Mycroft. He was able to utilize his connections within the government to invent and sponsor a full-sized archaeological excavation. We were even able to extend the sponsorship to last the full length of the trial and the following months of possible backlash. I wanted to be certain that the child would not be imperiled by Moriarty's plotting, so I sent you away, made you believe that I hated you, impeding your return while you could be targeted and used against me, and finally trusted that you would keep yourself and the child reasonably safe, which you did a very poor job of doing."

Sherlock stopped and looked back at Layla when she gasped with indignation. He tilted his shoulders forward and lifted an eyebrow, sighing when he saw the tears pooling in the corners of Layla's eyes. She hadn't wanted the baby to start out with but its death would not ever be a laughing matter.

"You're still upset about the child, I'm sorry Layla. I didn't realize it would be a sensitive subject considering the fact that you didn't wish to even have it."

He sat down on his chair again and rested his elbows on his knees. Layla sniffed and took the opportunity to confront him about the child.

"So, are you going to explain why in the hell you decided to switch out my contraceptive? It hardly seems like you would want to be a father."

"I had never considered the idea until you were so frantic to get to the chemist." He rolled his eyes when Layla looked up at him angrily. "Yes, I followed you, you can hardly be surprised by the news. I heard you crashing around the apartment and was curious to find out why. When I reflected upon the possibility of having a child with you I decided that I would do what I could to help it happen."

"But why?" Layla was still boggled. Sherlock did not seem interested in caring for a small person or being at all involved with anyone's life besides his own.

"I'm a narcissist, the situation seemed to be ideal. You're genetically commendable and I thought I could fulfill my _biological imperative_ while I had the chance. There is a very small probability that any other woman would be interested in procreating with me."

Sherlock didn't meet Layla's eyes and instead stood to look around the apartment.

"What has John done with my violin? I hope he hasn't—"

"Sherlock…? That is the worst excuse I've ever heard. You aren't interested in having a normal life, so what is it?"

He glared back at Layla and stopped stalking around the flat.

"I haven't the faintest idea what you mean."

Layla laughed and threw her hands in the air. This man was impossible.

"Yes you do, enough with the lies, Sherlock! You've already faked your death, you'd think you would be tired of making shit up."

Sherlock ruffled his hair and collapsed in the chair.

"Fine, I wanted a way to make sure you wouldn't leave. A child seemed like an excellent way to guarantee you wouldn't go back to America when you discovered that you were one of Mycroft's pawns. I am an addict and I wanted you to be around to perpetuate my supply."

He crossed his arms petulantly and stared over Layla's head and into the kitchen. Layla rubbed her temples tenderly, the stress of the situation was giving her a headache. For whatever reason, she hadn't anticipated that confronting Sherlock would be so trying.

"Of course it wasn't anything as simple as that you had feelings for me and liked the idea of having a family together. That was mine and John's favorite conjecture, but we both knew it was a long shot."

Layla snorted and marched over to the kitchen, she needed some tea if this conversation was going to continue peacefully.

"Layla," his voice was low and startling in its sincerity, "I invented an expensive rouse and cashed in a fair amount of purchase with my brother to ensure that you were safe. If I could have, I would have done the same for John, the very same, and you have pointed out that John is my closest friend, about whom I _care_. Knowing that, you can't actually believe that I do not care for you, or have you lost your ability to make intelligent observations while I've been dead?"

Layla was startled and lashed out with another question.

"Then why didn't you tell me about it? It would've been a good deal easier to keep this child, that _you_ wanted me to have, safe and sound if I knew that it existed!"

Sherlock knitted his brow and waved his hand dismissively, as though Layla's question was stupidly un-insightful.

"You wanted rid of it so desperately that if I had told you while you were in the first trimester you absolutely would have aborted it. Besides, I assumed you would discover it while you were away in Greece. After I had broken your heart you would have most certainly kept it, as a way of holding on to piece of me—sentiment, you know, is a sure tool for predicting people's decisions."

Layla's eyes were bugging out of her skull, the intricacy of Sherlock's web of lies was sending her blood pressure through the roof.

"You lied at every single turn, Sherlock. Is there anything you ever said to me that was true?"

"Please, Layla. Don't exaggerate. You know very well I only lied when it was necessary. I made you believe you were unwanted to protect you. I already explained this."

"No, last you said, it was to keep me from being used against you, which is the truth?"

"They're both true, stop being so obtuse." Sherlock shrugged and shook his head peevishly.

"OK," once again Layla moved on when Sherlock became unyielding, "so what about when you were a dad? You know when a little person actually existed because of you and relied upon the two of us for its survival."

Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea and walked back to sit with Layla.

"I had hoped to be finished with Moriarty by that time, then I could reacquaint myself with you and the boy and resume our arrangement. But the whole thing went a bit further than _originally_ planned."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he snorted with frustration. Layla wondered what actually happened with Moriarty but she was really more interested with her situation for now, so she put off that question.

"And it died, what were you going to do, what _are_ you going to do? I've been here for a while now, why didn't you come back when the baby was no longer in danger? When there was no baby to be in danger?"

"I started following you when I found out that you had lost the child, I assumed that you would be emotionally fragile but it was still too dangerous for any one of us to be in contact. It is _still_ too dangerous me to be seen alive and happily involved with you or John. Before that, it was even less safe to visit for the sake of you and the boy. Apparently though, you were dangerous enough to yourself, I never realized you were _that_ clumsy."

Layla pursed her lips and tried to control her response but she could feel the anger bubbling up inside of her. She knew to expect his emotional detachment and general inability to empathize but he was critiquing her for killing their child while acting as though it was the easiest thing in the world to abandon the people closest to him. He sighed, undoubtedly exasperated with the range of her emotions. This pushed Layla over the edge.

"Sherlock Holmes, stop acting as though my emotions irritate you! I have a right to be upset with you, I don't care how dangerous it is for me and John and whoever else, this is cruel emotional torture leaving us to think that you're dead. And then I lost a _child_, I didn't break my leg! Something living and growing died inside of me. I was distraught because of it, stop treating it as though it were menial and stop acting as though you weren't upset about it!"

Sherlock's face froze into the old, porcelain mask and he sat up straight in his seat.

"But you know I am alive now, and you're healthy. I saw your health records."

Layla hardly realized what she was doing as her hand made violent impact with Sherlock's cheek. His eyes widened in surprise but he recovered quickly and cleared his throat just barely flinching from the affront. Layla, however, burst into tears.

"You are an impossible man, Sherlock. I don't think I can stay around you and maintain my mental health. You are dangerous, Mycroft was right. You operate selfishly, without any regard for the repercussions your actions have on those around you. You fucked us over, all of us. John is a goddamn mess, Sherlock!"

Sherlock's nose twitched as Layla yelled at him but he pressed tight his lips and endured the onslaught until Layla brought up John.

"John is fine."

"No, Sherlock, no he is not. He puts on a brave face, but your death destroyed him. I have never, never seen a man more broken. And all you had to do was tell him you're alive. Do we mean so little to you that you can continue your life—"

"I did it for your safety! You and John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Molly, it had to be this way, for you." Sherlock finally raised his voice, finally showed some emotion. Layla saw it then, the sadness behind his eyes.

"I don't understand, though. Why?"

Sherlock stood and moved towards the kitchen, Layla assumed he was tired of putting up with her and was making a run for it. Instead he put away his cup and removed his suit jacket.

"The less you know the better. I won't say anymore about it, for now."

Layla sighed and wiped her face with the tissue that Sherlock offered her.

"Fine, but I expect the rest of the story at some point. Or else."

"Agreed. Now take off your clothes."

"What?"

Layla turned around to find Sherlock standing fully naked in the kitchen.

"You know that I'm alive, so now we can resume our arrangement. These past months have been inordinately difficult and I've sorely needed the release, this day hasn't been any better. Now remove that ridiculous dress, which by the looks of it was worn to induce this very situation, and close your mouth. You shouldn't be so shocked."

Layla pulled at a thread hanging at the hem of her skirt and bit her lower lip. She felt strangely conflicted about the situation. Every fiber of her being was tingling and itching to be held by Sherlock, she too had missed his touch for the past five months or so. On the other hand, she was still frustrated with him and his insensitivity, _and_ she knew her body had sustained a good deal of abuse while she had been apart from him. While he stood there, glowing with his thin, pristine body, she had gained a good deal of weight, and lost it again, leaving an abundance of stretch marks and a feeling of intense insecurity about the state of her _area_, it had been pried open and stripped of a living being recently.

"Layla, you needn't feel insecure about being seen naked by me, I know what you've been through and what it has done to your body."

She still hesitated, wondering why he was interested in her if he knew how unfortunate she looked.

"And you're well enough to engage in sexual congress, if you were concerned about that. Like I said, I've seen your chart."

He peered over at Layla as she smoothed the cloth of her dress over her hips and thighs thinking about how much smoother the skin beneath it used to be and how much Sherlock had enjoyed holding on to those areas. She wondered if he had been thinking about doing the very same thing and for how long. In the meantime Sherlock had inched over to her and was searching her face.

"I still want _you_, Layla. This situation couldn't have worked with anyone else, nor do I want it to."

"So, wait—" Layla suddenly had another question, "just to check, you said you wanted to prevent me from leaving when I learnt that I was Mycroft's pawn, but that means that Mycroft's news didn't actually upset you a couple of months ago, you'd known about it for a while. Did you know about his plan to keep you distracted with me the _entire_ time?"

Sherlock smirked and glared condescendingly down at her.

"As soon as I saw you with Henry I knew it couldn't be a coincidence that a young, attractive, woman with an interesting problem had moved in downstairs from me the same week my brother ran across something he didn't want me to know about. Henry has been an acquaintance of Mycroft's for several years now and during that time has been integral in completing those of my brother's schemes that he didn't want me involved with. I knew you were a distraction all the while; the fact that I allowed you to divert my attention is proof that I found you adequately intriguing. And still do. Now disrobe, my patience is waning."

He took another step closer trapping Layla against the back of John's chair.

"But Sherlock, it's been a long time and things have changed, you haven't seen me and as much as you think you know what to expect, there's bound to be some surprises and—"

His lips latched onto Layla's effectively silencing her rambling descent into self-loathing. They felt the same as she remembered, soft and warm and nothing like Sherlock's icy appearance. His careful kiss gradually became more urgent, his tongue prying further open her mouth and darting inside. She reciprocated and wrapped her arms around his neck standing on tiptoe to press harder against his mouth. She shivered when his hands slid across her hips and hitched up her dress. His fingertips were cold and left a trail of cool sensation on her bare skin but warmed quickly when his hands settled on their normal spot. The pads of his fingers sunk slightly into her soft bottom as she bit his bottom lip and moaned into his mouth. Sherlock grabbed hold of the bottom of Layla's dress and yanked it off her, ending their kiss just long enough to pull it over her head. He unlatched her bra and threw it aside with one swift motion and slid off her lacy panties so gracefully Layla hardly noticed their removal, this was mostly because his mouth had found a new occupation toying with her left nipple. As soon as she was completely naked Sherlock stood back up and took her face in his hands and kissed her again, soundly and passionately before pressing her against the arm chair with the length of his body. They both shuddered as their bare skin made contact, heat against heat. In this position, his erection pushed urgently against Layla's stomach and she could feel his pulse beside her hip bone. She began to hoist herself up onto the back of the chair, grabbing hold of Sherlock's shoulders so that he could enter her but he stopped her.

"No. Wait here." Sherlock padded over to his neatly folded suit on the kitchen table and extracted a small plastic package. A condom. Layla stared at him, he had never been interested in using protection before, but then again he _had _been trying to get her pregnant. Layla guessed he thought better of that now.

Sherlock unwrapped it and stuffed the waste paper back into his suit before easily putting the rubber on. Layla watched, intrigued by his focus and precision.

"Done that before, have we?"

Sherlock's head snapped up and stared her down.

"It's hardly difficult to deduce how to put on if you're implying that I've done this before."

"OK, OK. Don't get so defensive, but really, is that actually necessary?" Layla stepped away from the chair and ran her finger mollifyingly up and down his torso. "I mean, I'm healthy but there's very little chance that I could conceive—"

Sherlock pushed a strand of hair out of her face and behind one of her ears, lingering over the nape of her neck and then kissing her lightly. Layla knew he was manipulating her again but doing so to ensure safe sex—she had endured worse. He broke off the kiss and murmured softly into her ear,

"I don't want to take any chances. We should only risk that again when we can both be actively involved." He pulled away and looked deeply into her eyes. _Man, he is really working me and boy is it effective._ "Don't you agree Layla?"

She nodded slowly and licked her lips as she watched Sherlock's mouth moving, she already knew what he was saying and really didn't care about it anymore.

"I can't believe I've let you work me like this twice." Layla mumbled as Sherlock nipped across her collar bone.

"It was incomparably effective for our first encounter, I presumed it would be so for this time as well." Sherlock's voice reverberated through the thin skin on Layla's chest and left her feeling breathless as the vibration magically travelled lower.

"You were so right." Layla started panting as Sherlock dropped onto his knees and she realized she was pinned against the kitchen wall. The same kitchen wall he has seduced her against their first night together. She smiled softly at the differences between the two situation smashed so vividly among the parallels.

"But look who's on their knees."

Her snide comment did not go unpunished when Sherlock spent what felt like the next fifteen minutes licking and nuzzling every inch of her groin except the tiny bundle of nerves she wanted attended to most.

"Alright, alright," Layla gasped, "you're still in control."

She was promptly rewarded and just as quickly reaped the surprising benefits of being toyed with overlong. As she disentangled her fingers from Sherlock's hair (which didn't nearly as long as it used to with his longer locks) and relaxed into her post-peak euphoria Sherlock stood and lifted her up against the wall. He hardly waited for Layla to latch onto his slender waist with her legs before he plunged into her. His eagerness was immediately checked causing Layla to open her eyes and stare up at him. His eyes were narrowed and lips pursed.

"What's wrong?" Layla's voice sounded gravely and too deep to her ears, thick with lust.

"Thirty percent decrease in sensitivity." He grumbled and grabbed hold of her ass cheek harder.

"Tell me if I hurt you, I will be rougher as a result."

"Try me." Layla smiled slyly and sunk her nails into his scalp again.

Layla didn't realize what she was signing up for but she in no way regretted it. Sherlock slammed her harder against the wall with every thrust and left her absolutely gasping for air within the first fifteen seconds. Sherlock's fingertips were biting into her bum and his sharp hipbones were colliding against her pelvis but it hardly bothered her since the entirety of her body was humming with arousal. As her second orgasm wracked her frame and left her clenching around Sherlock, a fervent growl escaped his lips and his spare hand curled into a fist on the wall above her head. Layla squeezed her muscles again as an additional tremor hit her and she felt the wall tremble; Sherlock had planted his palm firmly against the wall again.

"Hold on."

"What?"

Layla languidly lifted one eyelid and peered blearily at Sherlock. He was glistening with sweat and flushed all across the alabaster plane of his chest. She finally unglued her gaze from the vein running up Sherlock's left bicep and looked up to his eyes, pupils blown wide with arousal, completely obscuring the steely pools. His mouth was open and his lips were cherry red from her hungry mouthing. They were moving again but the words weren't registering. All of a sudden, she was floating, all foundation and security jerked away from her as Sherlock lifted her away from the wall. She clamped down around his neck and squealed briefly before she realized he was taking her to the bedroom.

"Bed?" She moaned.

Sherlock grunted in agreement, "I need more purchase."

He lowered her slowly onto his mostly unused bed and moved along with her as she fidgeted to get comfortable. As he began to rock into her again Layla grabbed hold of his ass and used the solidness of his body to reinforce his own thrusts. They were quickly ramming into one another so voraciously that Sherlock was forced to grasp the headboard to keep from slamming Layla into it. A few well timed flexings of Layla's pubic muscles later and Sherlock was cursing unintelligibly from between clenched teeth.

"Fuck." He collapsed on top of her and shivered with his final burst of orgasm. Layla ran her hands through his hair, affectionately this time, and kissed the sharp angle of his cheekbone.

"I've missed you." His exhausted baritone rumbled from the pillow above Layla's head betraying his potential for sentiment. Layla noted it and chose to counter.

"I've missed you too." She patted his bottom softly as he rolled off of her and onto the bed to lie on his side. "Especially your cock, John just doesn't do it for me anymore."

Sherlock's nose twitched at her teasing but he kept his eyes closed, "As though he would cheat on that new girlfriend who actually allows him to be on top. Interestingly enough _you_ were too dominant for him."

Layla chuckled and tucked herself into the curve of Sherlock's body. She stayed awake just long enough to realize when Sherlock's sleeping form hugged her into their normal position. She fell asleep listening to his breathing as it gently rustled the hairs plastered to her forehead.

**A/N: Suggestions, complaints, screams of dismay and/or delight? You know where to click; I read and appreciate all comments and will consider each in future revisions/additions. Thanks to those of you who have spoken up, hopefully I've addressed everything to your liking. **

**A short epilogue is to follow which has not yet been written so don't hold your breath! Cheers!**


	15. The Remission

Layla's eyes fluttered open the next morning to find an empty room. Sherlock must have left her sometime in the small hours of the morning; despite the overwhelming urge to panic, Layla knew that the events of the night before had not been cruel inventions of her imagination. There were signs, first of all, the exhausting soreness crippling her entire body was a pretty clear hint. She couldn't have managed that any other way. Also, his scent lingered over portions of the bed and wafted around her face when she rolled over. Layla sighed to herself and flopped out of bed to tidy up the room. The last thing she wanted was to have to explain to John why his 'spare room' looked and smelled like an animal cage.

Once the room was straightened back up and smelled better Layla meandered back downstairs to her basement apartment to sulk. Sherlock had been thorough in eradicating any evidence that he specifically had been there, Layla had of course noticed this and in the process realized that she had no way of making contact with him. Until Sherlock wanted to see her, he was practically dead to Layla, again.

When John and Mary returned the next day they were incredibly upbeat and practically glowing with contentment, it made Layla sick. Before Sherlock had been resurrected, John and Mary's domestic happiness had been a source of inspiration for Layla, a proof that she could find another person to share her life with and to make her happy, like John had found in Mary by some random coincidence. But now that Sherlock was no longer actually dead that option was no longer viable or even wanted. Instead, Layla had a superior situation, a man who was real and had already found her, but she had to keep it all secret. It didn't help that this particular man was the most capricious, insensitive and socially incapable human being she had yet to encounter.

As Layla sat smiling and nodding at John and Mary's charming weekend getaway stories, all she could think about was the fact that she couldn't tell them her excellent news and that her excellent news may not be in contact with her for an unforeseeable amount of time.

"So, how was your weekend? You seem distracted, did something happen?" John was holding a cup of tea in front of her face and frowning down at her, Mary merely looked concerned.

"Oh, it was fine, just haven't been sleeping well again. You know how it is." Layla blew off the question and tried to ignore how perceptive John had been. Or how obvious she was.

"I'll try and get you something to help you to sleep tomorrow at the surgery. Just remind me later." John plopped down next to Mary and kissed her on the cheek, Layla could feel the bile rising in her throat.

She plastered a semi-convincing smile on her face and continued to sit quietly as Mary explained how they had gotten a free meal because of some mishap with their room. She giggled and nodded at the appropriate moments but spent the time scolding herself for feeling jealous. Layla had known from the start that she would never have an adorable domestic moment like that with Sherlock, and she didn't even really want _that_, she just wanted to be able to text Sherlock and maybe bitch at him for stealing her panties. Lucky for her, she wouldn't have to wait long.

"Yeah, so we had to come back for today and tomorrow but they promised to reimburse us with a couple extra days. The whole incident with the loo was an unmitigated nightmare but I never expected two free nights."

Layla tuned back in to John's addendum to Mary's story just in time to react with delight, genuine this time. If they were going away again there was a good chance Sherlock would come back, he had after all seemed pretty intent upon picking up their arrangement where they had left it: complete with nightly installments.

Layla was right, Sherlock showed up two nights later, hardly an hour after John left to meet Mary, with a new hair cut, a bouquet of flowers and a fake nose. Layla held her cool pretty well, graciously accepting the flowers and awarding Sherlock with her most appreciative smile.

"Aw, Ron," Sherlock grimaced slightly at his newly endowed alias and stepped inside, "they're lovely. Thanks." Layla shut the front door and shooed Sherlock back to her flat quickly before Mrs. Hudson could come out and inspect her visitor.

"Ron?" Sherlock snapped as soon as the door was closed. He threw the roses on her desk and collapsed petulantly into her desk chair, kicking over her trash can in the process. Layla lifted her eyebrows in judgmental surprise but otherwise ignored his little tantrum as she went back to the kitchen and popped a pill in her mouth. Sherlock noticed naturally,

"Why Ron? It's such a plebian name!" He scoffed and hopped from the chair to look over Layla's shoulder,

"It is about time you started taking hormonal supplements, I don't want to wear a condom any longer than necessary."

He snatched the package from her hand and poured over the prescription information.

"A month! I'm not waiting a month, we will have to employ other methods. Why didn't you start taking these sooner?"

Sherlock tossed the data sheet onto the floor and wheeled around to face Layla. A frown froze his face as he observed Layla's reaction. Her cool exterior had melted and her face was cracking into a maniacal grin.

"You dyed your hair. Your hair is orange. Your hair is orange, Sherlock, you're a ginger." Layla burst into a fit of uncontrolled laughter. Sherlock just stared at her looking mildly confused.

"Why is the color of my hair such a subject of derision? In actuality, my outfit is what you should be mocking, but then again, I chose it to match the sort of person you would normally be seen interacting with, so…"

Layla couldn't be bothered to feel offended at Sherlock's offhanded insult, she was too amused by his hair. He had had it cut even shorter than before, now she could barely tell it was curly, and had colored it to be a rich auburn. Really, it didn't look half bad, pretty attractive if she was being honest, but the shock of it had sent her into hysterics.

"I like your cardigan." Sherlock rolled his eyes as Layla slinked over to him with feigned coquettishness. She ran her fingers through his much shorter hair and felt the corners of her mouth tug downwards.

"I really do like your cardigan, and your converse. You were right, very me. But I'm really going to miss your hair."

"I don't understand. My hair will grow back, why waste the energy mourning it?" Sherlock's eyebrows were scrunched together, he having a hard time with this one. Layla shook her head and straddled him in the chair.

"Emotions really don't register with you do they?"

"Not if I can help it. Now why Ron?"

Layla laughed again and looped her arms around his neck, surprised that he was allowing her this sort of intimate touch while they weren't actively engaged in sex or unconscious.

"Oh, pop culture reference that you wouldn't understand. Now where are my panties, mister?"

Sherlock's eyes crinkled briefly with delight, like he was proud of himself for having nicked her underwear and he lifted Layla off his lap.

"Not here." He jumped up from the chair and began undressing, "I've held onto them for further investigation."

Despite the lower quality fabrics and his general disdain towards them, Sherlock still took care to fold all of his articles of clothing before rounding on Layla. She was in the process of removing her tights when Sherlock ordered her otherwise.

"Stop."

Layla looked up from her partially bared leg, confused, and ended up toppling over onto her bed as she hopped around trying to extricate her foot.

"What? I was just trying to expedite the process, I thought you would appreciate my efficiency." She flipped over to find Sherlock towering over her, a look somewhere between incredulity and disgust marring his lovely features.

"I would hardly call anything that results in one falling over, entangled in one's own hosiery efficient."

He knelt down to free Layla's left foot from its spandex prison. Layla watched him carefully, intrigued by how different he looked. With shorter hair, his recent weight loss was even more pronounced. Along with his cheekbones, his jaw line and brow looked sharper and his face far too thin, even sunken. She tousled his hair and tried to focus on its new shades of amber and copper instead of how sickly Sherlock himself looked. He caught her frowning at his hair and rolled his entire head with annoyance.

"Still on the hair." He finished peeling the other leg of her tights off and rose to lay them on the bed.

"Yeah, well, it's a big change." Layla decided blaming her mood on his hair would be easier than explaining her concern for his health.

"You look less ethereal and mysterious now, which is probably a good thing, but the red is nice. I like it against your skin." She stroked the line of his jaw bone after he sat down on the bed beside her. He raised a judgmental eyebrow but said nothing.

"Don't you judge me Sherlock Holmes. I'm allowed to have preferences that don't match up with your normal appearance. Even if that means that I like you as a redhead better than as a brunette."

"It is merely an aspect of my disguise, like the fake nose; as soon as it is no longer required I will dispose of it."

He seemed irritated by her preference for his new hair color and shrugged away from her hand, laying hold of her by the wrist and pinning her to the bed with her hands above her head. He hardly seemed put out by it afterwards, in fact, he may have very well enjoyed her newfound enthusiasm spurred on by the change. Either way they had loud sex for the next forty-five minutes during which Layla insisted upon calling out 'Ron' for authenticity's sake and Sherlock ended up gagging her with her own hose, something she may have also secretly liked.

Afterwards, Sherlock stayed for dinner, and then stayed the whole night through and even was around the next morning for breakfast. Moreover, he ate. Layla thought the ceiling was going to fall in over her head.

She was even more shocked when a similar set of circumstances held the exact same result. The next time John stayed over at Mary's, Sherlock showed up at her front door dressed down and bearing gifts again, chocolates this time. They spent the evening guessing the fillings of the chocolates and eating them in turn. Sherlock somehow knew each one while Layla only guessed about a quarter, but she didn't mind as she watched him enjoying the chocolates and then later the casserole she had been preparing before he arrived.

After their meal Layla decided to open the bottle of wine she had picked up that day for her evening in. Sherlock even took a glass, and then another. They eventually finished the bottle together while discussing, among other things, the absurdity of John and Mary's relationship, according to Sherlock, and Mycroft's most recent annoying habit, snooping in her medical records and interrogating her about her birth control.

They both fell asleep before anything hot and heavy happened, Layla cradled in Sherlock's embrace. He had been pointing out the minute changes in her body that had cued Mycroft off to her starting birth control when they drifted off, a hand on a breast and hip each.

Layla awoke first the next morning and had to hurry in order to get to work on time. She made breakfast and left a note for Sherlock, who was still sleeping, on where to find the second portion before practically running out the door. When she returned home late that afternoon, Sherlock was still there, freshly showered and wearing his old dressing gown, the one he had packed for Layla when she went to Greece. He looked up from Layla's research manuscript to reprimand her for her pantry.

"You've hardly kept up with the nutritional regiment we discussed before." Sherlock shook his head and flipped the page.

"You're writing, on the other hand, has hardly changed. You do you realize that there are other conjunctions besides 'furthermore' and 'moreover,' don't you?" He flipped back the last page of the packet and discarded it on her newly cluttered desk. Layla ran her fingers through her hair in an attempt to avert her temper from souring as she realized her entire filing system had been upended. She gave up and turned to the kitchen only to find the same tornado that had pillaged her desk had torn apart her kitchen. Boxes of crackers and sacks of chips were strewn everywhere, emptied and discarded; cartons of milk and juice left half full to spoil on the countertop.

"Did you pick up any cigarettes?" Sherlock plucked Layla's purse from her now limp grasp and began to empty its contents onto her bed. Layla tore her horrified gaze away from that disaster zone and turned to look with incomprehension at Sherlock.

"What? No. Why would I pick up cigarettes?" She glared at him as he stopped rifling through her possessions to look up angrily.

"I told you to last night." He continued looking Layla over as though she was some sort of clueless moron.

"You didn't perhaps tell me that while I was sleeping, did you?" Layla rolled her eyes and stalked over to the kitchen to start cleaning up the mess.

"How am I to know when you're conscious or not? You hardly ever exhibit observable signs of mental engagement." Layla whipped around in infuriation just in time to catch the tail end of Sherlock's pretentious shrug and lip curl. If she wasn't so tired she probably would have leapt across the room and punched his stupid haughty face. Instead she chose a more rational response, sarcasm.

"Well, it certainly seems you got bored today. What were you going to dig through next if I hadn't come home? My underwear drawer perhaps? Or maybe my tax records?"

"Already covered those. Your taste in underwear is truly atrocious. Really, besides the ten or eleven pairs you wear for me, that drawer is populated with the knickers of an eighty-seven year old spinstress." Layla clenched her teeth and exhaled through her nose with exasperation as she tipped another armful of ruined refrigerated goods into the bin.

"And your math skills are less than satisfactory. Also, it seems you've been overpaying the United States' internal revenue service by an astonishing average of 23 percent per year, by the guidelines in that packet there. Do you just not care enough to read it through or do you not know the definition of deductable?"

Layla finished throwing away her spoilt food and swiveled on the ball of her foot to glower back at Sherlock. He was still sitting on her bed looking outright poisonous.

"You know Sherlock, if you really find me so mind-numbingly vapid and ordinary why don't you get out of my home and find someone more interesting to occupy your time. You didn't need to stay here. You could have found another person's life to completely ransack and ridicule!"

Layla hurled an empty box of saltine crackers that had been hidden under another sack of trash at Sherlock and stomped over immediately to pick it up to throw it away instead. Sherlock stood gracefully from the bed, hugged the dressing gown more tightly around himself and marched into the bathroom. Layla heard the lock click and pulled a face at the door, all she had wanted to do was relax that evening after a long day of working with a hangover alongside Mycroft. Instead she had to play nanny to a grown man on the edge of a temper tantrum. She almost wished she was still at work with Mycroft, at least that Holmes was tidy. Then again, that condescending sneer had nearly driven Layla to stab the man with a pencil several hours before.

Layla instantly cooled when she realized that despite his petulant outbursts, she much preferred Sherlock to his elder brother, and frankly, to most men. He was after all brilliant and gorgeous and far more human than he let on. And now she had hurt his feelings, the ones he so adamantly insisted upon not having.

She turned back to the kitchen to start making dinner, hopefully a shared meal would mend the rift, that is, if she could get him to come out of the bathroom. Layla sifted through the remaining food in her cabinets and fridge and found that very little was left. She had noticed a great deal of empty boxes when she had tidied up but not nearly as much food waste in the trash or in the other garbage sacks. Sherlock had either been binge eating or had found an innovative new way to completely eradicate a great deal of food without leaving any evidence and for no particular reason. Layla pushed aside how expensive restocking her food supply would be and tried to come up with a plan for a meal from what remained.

"Could I interest you in some fried rice, Sherlock?" Layla called through the bathroom door and marched back to the kitchen to put the water on to boil. Sherlock stepped into the doorway of the bathroom and appraised Layla before responding.

"I'm surprised that is your choice, a starch-focused meal for the second night in a row. I thought you were trying to lose weight."

Layla gaped at him as the ringing in her ears reached a fever pitch. Sherlock noticed and without acting explicitly contrite qualified his abuse,

"Not that you need to." He cleared his throat and strode over to retrieve the rice from her upper cabinet. "At least you have brown rice, I prefer its flavor to white, just make sure you don't overcook it." He set the bag down and turned back towards Layla's desk without making eye contact with her.

* * *

><p>"I read your publication." Sherlock's voice drew Layla's attention back to the rice popping out of the wok in front of her, she needed to turn the heat down some.<p>

"Oh, yeah?" She responded vaguely since she only partially comprehended what he had said. She had resorted to autopilot during the extensive silence that had held the apartment for the last hour and her mind had drifted to other things, work, expenses, how she could update her underwear selection, again.

"It is fascinating, the morphological parallels are extensive." Layla smiled, this was Sherlock's way of apologizing, subtle compliments about her work.

"I'm glad you found it stimulating."

Sherlock hummed and fell silent again. Apology accepted, peace was restored.

They ate dinner amicably and once again fell asleep together (this time after a bout of angry sex, at least on Layla's end). Sherlock slept through Layla's departure again but left while she was still away at work. When Layla returned from work the following evening she found an empty apartment but her entire pantry restocked with foods that were up to Sherlock's standards. She was therefore unsurprised when he turned up unannounced at her back window later that night, just in time for lemon pepper salmon.

This became a sort of routine for the two of them, Sherlock would disappear during the day while Layla was at work and would return in the evenings in time for dinner, even when John wasn't away. This was only a problem once, when Sherlock had returned a little too early and the pair of them had gotten frisky while the sun was still out. John had gotten comfortable enough with Layla that he would occasionally stop in to make sure she was faring alright. This time he didn't even bother knocking, he just popped on it with a cup of tea in hand and was rewarded with a face full of Sherlock's ass.

"Holy fucking Christ, sorry Layla!" He had covered his face and instantly darted from the room. Layla found him upstairs a few minutes later, flustered but otherwise unfazed.

"Oi, you outta lock the door when you've a bloke in, Jesus Layla! I could'a done with not seeing some chap's arse today." He chuckled as Layla fidgeted in her bathrobe.

"I'm glad you have someone new around. You're finally recovering and all. You should bring him round sometime, the four of us can go out."

John was doing well, really well, joking about Layla finding someone new without lingering too darkly on the implications of that statement. Layla was just relieved he hadn't found it suspicious or recognized his supposedly dead best-mate by his ass.

"Oh, well, he's not really—um, he's not my boyfriend, just a, you know, a fling." Layla floundered to find a proper excuse for keeping her 'new' beau secret. "So, I don't think introductions will be necessary. Yeah. I'm gunna go now, he's still downstairs."

John giggled again as Layla scampered awkwardly off.

After the close call, Sherlock disappeared for a longer stretch and Layla kept her door locked, just in case. Once the anxiety over Sherlock's secret blew over he returned again and settled into the original pattern of visits.

Really, it is more like he's a nocturnal roommate. Layla returns from work every day to fix dinner for two, sometimes the second portion becomes leftovers, sometimes Sherlock shows up in time to eat it. But he always shows up; whether he's injured, dirty, contemplative, cranky or manic Sherlock always shows up at some point. Certain nights, it's pretty obviously for the express purpose of utilizing their arrangement, but others he comes and spends the evening without even mentioning sex. And every night he's there to sleep, even if he slinks in during the smallest hours of the morning, Sherlock crawls into Layla's bed to lie beside her. And each morning, Layla wakes in the same position, curled up against Sherlock with his hand on her waist and his lips against her forehead, because no matter what he does during the day, Sherlock always sleeps soundly into late morning. Only in the case of Sherlock Holmes would _dying_ make a person act _more_ _human_.

finis ad resolutum

**A/N: Well, there it is, remember when I said it would be short? Anyway, that is all for now, at least until the plot is more resolved, I'm not much for stretching my suppositions too far into the realm of Moffat/Gatiss's evil genius. Who knows how they actually sort out this mess. Watch, Sherlock will have left the country and my story will be even _more_ non-canon. Cheers everyone and thanks for reading!**


End file.
